The day of the wedding was as surreal as the proposal itself. There we stood—mother and son—under a white gazebo draped in ivy and soft, pale roses. A handful of guests watched from their seats, blissfully unaware of the truth behind our peculiar union. To them, we were just two people in love, though their smiles sometimes faltered, and their whispers betrayed a sense of confusion they didn't dare voice.
The officiant's words blurred in my ears, and all I could focus on was Karen—my mom, my bride. Her green eyes shimmered with an emotion I couldn't quite name. Was it happiness? Relief? Or something darker, something deeper? She looked radiant in her cream-colored dress, a far cry from the hard-edged, guarded woman I had grown up with.
When the vows were exchanged, her voice broke with emotion.
"I promise to love you, protect you, and give you the life you've always deserved," she said, her hand gripping mine tightly.
And when the words "You may kiss the bride" were spoken, I hesitated. Only for a moment, but it was long enough for the weight of the act to sink in.
Her lips brushed mine—chaste, brief, and yet suffocating. The guests clapped politely, and I forced a smile, wondering how I had ended up here.
The first few days after the wedding were eerily quiet. Karen and I settled into a rhythm of domesticity that felt both comforting and unnatural. She cooked breakfast every morning, humming softly to herself as though nothing about our situation was unusual.
"Do you want coffee or tea?" she asked one morning, her voice light and cheerful.
"Coffee," I replied, my words clipped.
She brought the mug over, her fingers brushing mine as she set it down. "You're so tense, Alex," she said, tilting her head. "Aren't you happy?"
I forced a nod. "Yeah. Just… adjusting."
Her smile faltered, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the same determined warmth she had shown me since our wedding day.
As the weeks went by, the cracks in our life together began to show. At first, they were subtle: Karen's tendency to hover over me, the way she flinched if I spent too much time alone, the unspoken expectation that I should always be by her side.
One evening, as we sat on the couch watching an old black-and-white movie, she turned to me suddenly. "Alex, do you ever regret saying yes?"
Her question caught me off guard. "What? No, I don't regret it," I lied, my voice too quick, too defensive.
She studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled—a soft, sad smile that made my chest tighten. "Good," she said quietly. "Because I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."
Her words hung in the air like a storm cloud, and I felt the first tendrils of fear creep into my mind.
That night, I had a dream.
I was standing in a house that felt familiar yet foreign, its walls lined with photographs of Karen and me. But in each photo, her face was subtly wrong—her eyes too wide, her smile too sharp, her hand gripping mine with a possessiveness that sent a chill down my spine.
I turned away from the photos, only to find Karen standing in the doorway, her wedding dress stained with something dark. Her green eyes glowed unnaturally as she stepped toward me, her voice low and echoing.
"You said you'd stay with me forever, Alex," she whispered. "Forever means forever."
I woke up drenched in sweat, my heart racing. Beside me, Karen slept soundly, her face serene. But the dream lingered, a shadow I couldn't shake.
The next day, while Karen was out running errands, I found myself wandering the house aimlessly. My thoughts were scattered, my mind a mess of questions I couldn't answer.
Eventually, I found myself in her bedroom—the room that had once been my childhood bedroom. The transformation was startling; the walls were painted a soft lavender, and the furniture was elegant, almost romantic.
On a whim, I opened the drawer of her bedside table. Inside, I found a stack of letters, bound together with a faded red ribbon.
My heart pounded as I pulled them out, my hands trembling. The first letter was addressed to me, written in Karen's familiar handwriting.
"My dearest Alex," it began. "If you're reading this, it means you've started to wonder. I hoped it wouldn't come to this, but I can't keep the truth from you any longer…"
The letter ended abruptly, as though she hadn't been able to finish. I stared at the words, my mind racing. What truth? What had she meant?
I shoved the letters back into the drawer, my pulse hammering in my ears. When Karen returned home later that evening, her smile seemed sharper than usual, her eyes watching me too closely.
And for the first time, I realized: I wasn't just living with my mother.
I was living with someone I didn't truly know.