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.

Just as I finished removing my makeup and was about to rest with my husband, Ethan’s mother, Margaret, suddenly opened the door and walked in.

She was staggering, smelling of alcohol, but her eyes were completely clear.

“Claire, downstairs is too noisy,” she said, her voice sweet but cold.

“Let me rest here tonight. Just for a while.”

I looked at Ethan awkwardly. He hesitated for a moment and then whispered:

“Mom is just a little drunk. Let her stay for a while, honey.”

I didn’t want to cause trouble on my first night as a bride.

I nodded, taking the pillows to the sofa downstairs.

But as I left, I caught a glimpse of Margaret’s gaze on her son—not the look of a drunken mother, but something else: possessiveness, and fear of losing control.

The next morning, I returned to the room to call Ethan down for breakfast.

The door was only ajar.

I pushed gently…

The room was empty.

The sheets were rumpled, the smell of perfume was strong, and on the nightstand was an old photograph—a picture of Ethan at age eight, sitting on his mother’s lap, his father standing behind him but with half his face cut off.

I picked up the photo. On the back was a handwritten note:

“We don’t need anyone else.”