Marrying Michael, my childhood best friend, felt like the culmination of everything we had ever dreamed of. We had spent years sharing secrets, making plans, and talking about our futures. I believed our bond was unbreakable. We reunited unexpectedly outside our old coffee shop, and from there, it was as though time had stood still. Our conversations, our laughter—it was like we had never been apart. Two months after reconnecting, we were married.
Our wedding night felt like a fairytale. We settled into his family home, a place filled with memories of summer afternoons spent with him and his siblings. But something shifted in Michael that evening. As we got comfortable in the room, he handed me a worn notebook, his face tight with something I couldn’t quite place.
He told me it belonged to his mother and that it contained something I needed to know about his family. The notebook seemed innocuous at first, with pages full of his mother’s handwritten notes. But as Michael explained, I realized there was something far darker at play. According to his mother’s writings, there was a curse—one that doomed any woman who married into the family to misery and misfortune. Michael had always dismissed it as superstition, but the pattern of failed marriages and tragedies within his family made him question whether it was just a myth.
I tried to brush it off, chalking it up to old family folklore, but things started happening. Our car broke down right before our honeymoon. My business, which I had spent years building, was sabotaged by online attacks and fake reviews. And one night, someone broke into our home—nothing was stolen, but the violation was chilling.
Still, I didn’t believe in curses. That was until the day I overheard a phone call that changed everything. After talking to Michael’s mother, Marianne, about Thanksgiving plans, I realized the line was still open. From the speaker, I heard her laughing with Michael’s father, gloating about how her curse was working perfectly. She mentioned my failing business, Michael’s stress, and even how she planned to ruin our holiday dinner.
I recorded the entire conversation, feeling a chill run down my spine. When I played the recording for Michael that night, he sat in stunned silence. His mother wasn’t cursed—she was manipulating us all. The so-called curse was nothing more than a web of lies and deceit spun by a woman who seemed intent on ruining her sons’ lives, convinced she knew what was best for them.
We knew we had to confront her. The next day, we drove to his parents’ house, unannounced. Michael didn’t waste time. With his phone in hand, he played the recording for her. Marianne tried to deny everything, but when she heard her own voice, the truth became undeniable. Michael’s father, tired of covering up her manipulations, finally confessed. Marianne had been sabotaging every relationship, each one ending in misery, all in an effort to control her sons’ lives.
Michael’s voice cracked with betrayal as he confronted his mother. “You said you loved me,” he said, “but love doesn’t destroy. Love doesn’t manipulate.”
We left that night, our hearts heavy. Michael was devastated, apologizing over and over again for what his mother had done to us. But as we walked away from that house, I knew one thing: we were free now. Free from the lies, free from the manipulation, and free to start our lives anew.
The damage she had caused would take time to heal. Michael would carry the weight of her betrayal for a long time. But at least we had each other. No more curses, no more secrets. Just the two of us, ready to build a future without the shadow of his mother’s lies hanging over us.