After marrying my childhood sweetheart, I thought our happily ever after had finally begun. But that illusion shattered the moment he handed me a worn notebook filled with his mother’s secrets.
It all started innocently enough. I hadn’t expected to run into Michael that morning. I was just walking down Main Street in our old hometown, coffee in hand, when I saw him — tall, familiar, with a hint of gray at his temples — standing outside the same café we used to visit after school.
“Michael?” I called, almost not believing my eyes.
He turned, staring for a moment before breaking into that same warm grin I remembered. “Is that really you? I never thought I’d see you around here again!”
“Same here!” I laughed. “What are the odds?”
We ended up grabbing coffee together, just like old times. Inside, the smell of pastries and the creak of the wooden counters made it feel like time had rewound itself. We talked for hours — reminiscing about the time we got lost on a hike, or how we used to pass notes in history class. The hours melted away as if we’d never been apart.
Coffee turned into lunch. Lunch turned into long walks. Before long, we were talking every day. Everything between us felt easy and natural — like breathing.
A few months later, Michael proposed. It was simple, just the two of us sitting by the lake one quiet evening.
“I don’t want to waste any more time,” he said, voice steady but full of emotion. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Will you marry me?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision. Two months later, we were married.
After the wedding, we drove to his family home — the same one where we’d spent countless afternoons as kids. Nothing had changed. Even the wallpaper and the old oak tree in the yard were just as I remembered.
That evening, after I’d changed out of my dress, I found Michael sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression somber. He was holding a small, worn notebook.
“Michael?” I asked softly, sitting beside him. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer right away, just stared at the notebook, tracing its edge. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
The tone of his voice sent a chill down my spine. “What is it?”
He took a deep breath. “This notebook belonged to my mom. She kept notes… about our family. About something she believed was important.”
“Okay…” I said slowly, uncertain where this was going.
He handed it to me. Neat, looping handwriting filled every page. “My family believes in a curse,” he said quietly.
“They think any woman who marries into our family is doomed — to bad luck, tragedy, pain. It’s been that way for generations.”
I blinked. “A curse? Michael, you don’t really believe that, do you?”
He ran a hand through his hair, looking torn. “I’ve always told myself it’s just superstition. But I’ve seen things. My parents’ marriage was a mess. My uncle’s too. It’s like… it follows us.”
I took his hand. “That doesn’t mean anything. Marriages are hard for everyone.”
He smiled faintly but didn’t look convinced.
A week later, the bad luck began. First, a flat tire — right before our honeymoon. We couldn’t go anywhere.
“Just bad luck,” I joked, though my smile felt forced.
Then my business — the one I’d built from scratch — started losing clients. Bad reviews popped up online from people I’d never even met. No matter what I did, things kept falling apart. It was as if something — or someone — wanted to destroy everything I’d worked for.
Then came the break-in. Nothing valuable was stolen, but the sense of violation lingered.
“Do you think… this curse could be real?” Michael asked one night, his voice quiet.
“Of course not,” I said quickly, though a seed of doubt had begun to sprout in my mind. “There has to be an explanation. Maybe it’s just… a rough patch.”
Everything came to a head right before Thanksgiving. Michael’s mother, Marianne, insisted we host the holiday at our house. We spoke on the phone about the menu, and she sounded cheerful, almost too cheerful.
After hanging up, I set my phone on the couch and picked up a book. A few minutes later, I heard voices — faint, but unmistakable. The call was still connected.
“Do you really think this curse nonsense is still working?” Michael’s father asked, his tone exasperated.
Marianne laughed. “It works every time. Look at her! Her business is falling apart, and Michael’s so worried he can hardly think straight. I’ll end it all when I ruin her turkey.”
“Enough, Marianne,” her husband said wearily. “You’ve already scared off enough good women.”
“If they aren’t right for my boys, I’ll do what I have to,” she replied, her tone icy. “I know what’s best for them.”
My heart pounded. My hands trembled as I hit “record.” Every strange event — the flat tire, the bad reviews — it had been her. Not a curse. Her.
That night, I sat across from Michael, phone in hand. “Michael,” I said quietly, “there’s something you need to hear.”
He frowned. “What’s wrong?”
I pressed play.
His mother’s voice filled the room. The color drained from his face as he listened. “This… this has to be a mistake,” he stammered. “She wouldn’t — my mother would never—”
“Michael, I overheard the whole thing,” I said gently. “She’s been trying to break us apart.”
He stood, jaw tight. “I need to hear it from her. From both of them.”
We drove to his parents’ house that night. His father looked startled when he opened the door. “Michael? Is everything alright?”
“Where’s Mom?” Michael demanded, his voice hard.
Marianne appeared at the top of the stairs, her face a mask of surprise. “What’s going on?”
Michael held up my phone. “We heard everything. You and Dad — talking about the curse, about how you’ve been interfering in our lives.”
Her eyes darted to her husband, who looked away. “Michael, I don’t know what you think you heard—”
“You know what you said,” his father interrupted, his tone low but firm. “There’s no point denying it.”
She spun toward him, furious. “Don’t you dare!”
“I’ve kept quiet long enough,” he said. “I’ve watched you ruin relationship after relationship, lying and scheming because you thought you knew best. It ends now.”
Michael’s voice cracked. “So it’s true? All of it?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I did it because I love you, Michael.”
He stepped back, shaking his head. “This isn’t love. This is control.”
Silence filled the room. His father spoke softly, “I tried to reason with her. But she believes she’s protecting her sons.”
Michael turned to him, his voice breaking. “And you let her do this? For years?”
His father lowered his gaze. “I was afraid of losing her. Afraid of losing all of you.”
Michael said nothing. He just took my hand and led me outside. Under the night sky, he exhaled, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry. For all of it.”
I squeezed his hand. “We’re free now, Michael. That’s all that matters.”
But as we walked to the car, I couldn’t shake the heaviness in my chest — the weight of a family broken by lies, by a mother’s twisted idea of love. It would take time for Michael’s heart to heal.
Still, as we drove away, leaving that house and its secrets behind, I knew one thing for sure — the only curse that ever existed was control disguised as love.
Note: This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Source: Amomama