On the wedding night, I had to give up my bed to my mother-in-law because she was “drunk” — the next morning I found something stuck to the bed sheet that left me speechless.

In the dim yellow light, I noticed old photos plastered all over the wall: pictures of Ethan from childhood to adulthood – mostly alone or with his mother.

On the table, there was a diary.

The first page read:

“After the ac:ci:dent, it was just you and me. Your father d:ied, but people blamed your mother.”

“From then on, I swore I would never let anyone take you away again.”

I shivered.

The next page had scribbled, erased, and repeated words:

“She can’t take him away. No one can.”

And at the bottom was my wedding photo – my face torn to shreds.

I brought the diary to Ethan to see.

He was silent for a long time, then said:

“When I was 10, my father d:ied in a fire. The police suspected my mother of causing it, but there was not enough evidence.

She lost all faith, and from then on she kept me by her side.

Anyone who came near me – friends, girlfriends – disappeared.”

I choked up.

“Do you believe your mother is hiding something?”

He nodded:

“I always felt… my father’s de:a:th was not an accident.”

One evening, I made a decision to confront her.

As Ethan went out, I looked for Margaret in the study.

“You don’t have to control him anymore,” I said, my voice trembling.

“You saved him from the world, but you also kept him in fear.”

“You don’t understand. The world took everything from me. I only kept what was left!”

“But you’re k:il:ling your son,” I replied.

She approached me, her voice cold:

“If you really love him, then leave. Because one day, you too will disappear – like his father, like everyone else.”

The next morning, Ethan and I prepared to leave the house.

But when we walked out the door, the maid handed me an envelope.
Inside was a letter, in a familiar handwriting:

“Claire, please forgive me.

The accident back then… I didn’t cause it.

But I let him d:ie, because I believed he wanted to take you away.

I just wanted to keep you safe, but now I know, safety is not imprisonment.

Let my son be free.”

Ethan finished reading, speechless.

From afar, Margaret stood by the window, her eyes wet, but more peaceful than ever.

A month later, we moved to another city. Ethan began therapy, learning to separate from the invisible dependency that had followed him throughout his childhood.

As for me, I pray every night for that mother – a woman both pitiful and terrifying, imprisoned in her own obsession.

“Love doesn’t always k:ill,” I wrote in my diary,

“But possession in the name of love – it can.”