After marrying my childhood sweetheart, I thought our happily ever after had finally begun. That was until he handed me a notebook filled with his mother’s secrets.
I never imagined bumping into Michael that morning. I was simply out for my usual coffee, strolling through Main Street in our old hometown, when I spotted him. Tall, recognizable, with a touch of gray in his hair, he was standing outside the coffee shop where we used to hang out after school.
“Michael?” I called, almost skeptical.
He turned and paused momentarily, before his grin widened. “Is that really you?” he asked, with the familiar warmth in his voice. “I never thought I’d see you here again!”
“Same here!” I chuckled. “Can you believe it?”
We chose to grab coffee together, just like the old times. Inside the shop, it felt as though time had turned back. The classic wood counters and the aroma of freshly baked pastries were comforting and familiar.
Hours flew by as we caught up on lives and reminisced about past adventures—like getting lost during a hike or our note-passing in history class. Those hours felt like mere moments.
Coffee turned into lunch, then into leisurely strolls, and before long, daily calls became the norm. Everything felt naturally easy with him.
A few months passed, and Michael proposed. It was simple, just him and I, by the lake one evening.
“I don’t want to waste any more time,” he confessed, eyes filled with emotion. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Will you marry me?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” I whispered, tears brimming. Two months later, we officially tied the knot.
Post-wedding, we drove to his childhood home—where we spent many youthful days. The place looked exactly the same, right down to the hallway wallpaper and the ancient oak tree still in the yard.
That evening, after freshening up, I returned to find Michael on the bed, looking… different. Gone was his usual easygoing smile. Instead, he had a small, worn notebook in hand.
“Michael?” I questioned, sitting beside him. “Is everything okay?”
His eyes stayed on the notebook, fingers grazing its edges. “There’s… something I need to tell you.”
A chill ran through me at the tone of his voice. “What is it?”
He exhaled, finally meeting my gaze. “This notebook belonged to my mom,” he spoke softly. “She wrote about our family… things she thought significant.”
“Okay…” I responded quietly, still trying to piece it together.
He passed it to me, and I flipped through pages of neat, swirling handwriting. “My family holds this… belief,” he hesitated. “A curse, actually. Sounds absurd, but they think it’s genuine.”
“A curse?” I echoed, eyebrows raised, concealing my doubt.
He nodded. “Mom insists that any woman marrying into the family… will face misfortune. Tragedy. Hardship. It’s happened for generations, or so she claims.”
I almost chuckled but saw the worry in his eyes and stopped. “Michael, surely you don’t believe this?”
He ran a hand through his hair, conflicted. “I’ve always considered it an old superstition. But… I’ve seen things. Like my father’s stormy marriage to my mom. And my uncle… well, things ended badly for him too.”
I grasped his hand, a reassuring squeeze. “Look, it doesn’t signify anything. Many marriages are challenging.”
He faintly smiled, though doubt lingered. “Maybe you’re right,” he sighed, unconvinced.
A week past the wedding, small misfortunes began stacking up. First, it was a flat tire before our honeymoon, leaving us unable to drive.
“Just bad luck,” I reassured him with a forced laugh.
Back home, things took a strange turn. My business, built painstakingly over years, began losing clients. Unfavorable reviews popped up online, from people I’d never worked with. Despite my efforts, nothing improved. It felt like an actual curse on my career.
To add to the chaos, someone broke into our house. Although nothing valuable was stolen, the psychological impact remained.
Michael noticed, too. “Do you think… this curse might be real?” he asked one evening, voice hushed.
“Certainly not,” I replied quickly, though doubts crept in. “There must be a reason behind all this. Maybe it’s just… a phase.”
The turning point came right before Thanksgiving. Michael’s mother insisted on celebrating at our place. We discussed the menu over the phone, and she sounded upbeat.
After the call, I put my phone down on the couch and dove into a book, ready for some relaxation. But then, faint voices emerged. The call was still connected.
“Really think this curse nonsense is still working?” Michael’s father queried, exasperated.
Without hesitation, I recorded the conversation.
She chuckled. “It works like a charm. Look at her! Her business is in shambles, and Michael can’t think straight from worrying. And soon, I’ll ruin her turkey.”
“Stop, Marianne,” he urged. “You’ve driven away too many good women from our sons.”
“I’ll do whatever necessary if they aren’t right for my boys,” she coldly remarked. “I know what’s best.”
I felt shattered, replaying her words. All those odd happenings—flat tires, bad reviews—were due to her meddling. The curse wasn’t even real, just a ploy to control her children and their spouses.
That night, I sat with Michael, clutching my phone, hands trembling. “Michael, there’s something you need to hear.”
He looked at me, brows knitted in concern. “What’s wrong?”
I pressed play, and the room filled with his mother’s voice.
Michael appeared stunned, gaze shifting between my phone and me, processing it all. “This… this must be a mistake,” he fumbled, disbelief evident. “She wouldn’t… my mother would never—”
I took his hand. “Michael, I overheard everything. She’s been trying to break us apart.”
Finally, he turned to me, determination in his gaze. “I need to hear it from her. The truth, from both of them.”
We arrived at his parents’ home late that night. His father opened the door, surprised to see us. “Michael, what’s the matter?”
Michael moved past him, visibly angry. “Where’s Mom?”
His father’s face fell, stepping back. “Michael, let’s calm down.”
“I am calm,” Michael insisted, voice strained. “But I need answers, Dad.”
Marianne’s eyebrows raised, eyes darting to her husband. “What in the world are you discussing?”
Michael showed my phone. “I heard you, Mom. You and Dad, discussing the curse. Telling how you scared off women by making them believe in a curse.”
Her face changed from feigned puzzlement to a tough, calculating stare. “Michael, I don’t know what you think you heard, but—”
“You know what you said, Marianne,” his father interrupted somberly, stepping forward. “There’s no denying it.”
She turned to him, eyes blazing. “How dare you!”
“How dare I?” His father shook his head, looking exhausted. “For years, I’ve bit my tongue, watching you chase away every woman Michael or his brothers ever loved. Watching you deceive, sabotage, mess with lives, all because you believed you were doing right. It’s been long enough.”
Michael’s expression fell as he looked between his parents. “So it’s true?” he spoke softly. “All of it?”
She began crying. “I did it out of love for you, Michael.”
He recoiled, shaking his head. “This isn’t love. It’s control.”
The room was silent. His father sighed, voice weary. “Michael, I tried reasoning but she’s… believes it’s the right thing.”
Michael turned to his father, hurt. “And you let her do this? For years?”
His father looked down. “Afraid of losing everything. Thought maybe one day, it’d end. Or you’d be strong enough to… break free.”
Michael fell silent. Taking my hand, he led me away. Outside, he looked at the stars, slumped. He glanced at me, voice low. “I’m sorry. For everything.”
I squeezed his hand. “We’re free now, and that’s what counts.”
Yet, walking to the car, I felt the weight of a family torn by secrets and misguided efforts of love. Michael’s heart would need time for healing, yet we leave the so-called curse and his mother behind.
This story is fictionalized, inspired by real events, adjusted for creative reasons. Resemblances to real people or events are coincidental, not intentional. This narrative aims to explore themes, not replicate real events.
