It was our first wedding anniversary. Grant had planned a romantic rooftop dinner—candles, string lights, wine, and even a violinist. For the first time in months, we were really looking at each other. I thought maybe, just maybe, we were finding our way back. Then she arrived. His mother. Jean. Dressed in a white lace gown—with a train. She looked like a bride. “Anniversary dinners are for family too,”

she said sweetly, brushing past me, sitting in his seat, and eating off his plate. Grant didn’t say a word. I walked out. And he didn’t follow. Three days. No calls. No texts. Just a voicemail from Jean: smug, cold, letting me know she’d asked Grant to stay with her “until I could behave.” That’s when I realized—Jean wasn’t the problem. Grant letting her in was. I went back,