I wanted to do something truly special for him. He always talked about his family, how much they meant to him, how hard they’d been struggling lately. Losing their jobs, mounting bills, just barely making ends meet. My heart ached for them, and for him, carrying that weight. I loved him, deeply, and I wanted to lift some of that burden. My mom works at a gorgeous resort, all-inclusive, tropical paradise. She pulled some strings, got us an incredible discount – practically a steal. I planned it all in secret, then surprised him. The look on his face, that pure joy and relief, it was everything. I thought, this is love. This is what you do for family. I couldn’t wait to see his mom, his sister Sylvie, finally relax, no worries, just sun and good food.
The first night, we all went to the buffet. It was vibrant, endless choices. I piled my plate high: grilled chicken, some sautéed veggies, a little pasta. Comfort food after a long travel day. I went to grab a glass of wine, excited to toast to new memories.
When I got back, my plate was gone.
My boyfriend’s mom was sitting there, a serene, almost smug look on her face. “I asked the waiter to remove it,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. My brow furrowed. Remove what? My food?
“We don’t eat meat,” she continued, her voice soft but firm. “And you won’t with Sylvie here.”
I stared at her, then at my boyfriend, who was suddenly very interested in the table cloth. “But I eat meat,” I managed, my voice small. My stomach rumbled.
“Not this week,” she replied, a chilling smile playing on her lips. “It’s disrespectful.”
Disrespectful? In a restaurant I paid for? My stomach twisted, not from hunger, but from a sudden, sharp coldness. My boyfriend said nothing. Just a shrug, a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. A knot began to form in my chest.
The rest of the week was a blur of passive aggression and bewildering rules. No coffee after 6 PM because Sylvie got restless. Only certain types of music were allowed by the pool. We had to eat all our meals together, and God forbid I ever suggested splitting up for an hour. Every meal became a negotiation, a test of my patience. I felt like a stranger, walking on eggshells in a paradise I had paid for. I kept trying to talk to my boyfriend, to explain how isolated I felt. He’d just tell me, “That’s just how Mom is. You’ll get used to it. They’ve been through a lot.”
But they didn’t look like they’d been through a lot. Sylvie had a brand new designer handbag I recognized from an ad. His mom was ordering expensive cocktails without a second thought. I started to notice inconsistencies. The way they spoke about “our summer home” in passing, or the new car they were considering. My boyfriend’s story about their struggles began to unravel in my mind.
On the last night, I couldn’t sleep. The resentment was a physical ache. I decided to walk to the beach, just to clear my head. As I passed their room, the door was slightly ajar. I heard voices. His mom’s, then Sylvie’s. They weren’t arguing, but their tones were hushed, conspiratorial.
“He finally pulled it off,” Sylvie whispered, a giggle in her voice. “Another freebie. And the vegetarian thing? Brilliant, Mom. She didn’t stand a chance.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Freebie? Vegetarian thing?
Then my boyfriend’s mom’s voice, colder than any ocean breeze. “Of course. He needed the money for the club. And this way, she paid for our vacation, thinking she was so generous. He told her we were practically homeless, the idiot. Always falls for it. It buys him another month of peace from the bookies, and us a nice escape from his constant begging. Now, let’s just hope she doesn’t catch on before we leave.”
My breath caught in my throat. I pressed my hand to my mouth, stifling a sob. The club? Bookies? My boyfriend wasn’t trying to help his struggling family. He was a gambler. And his family wasn’t struggling at all; they were just helping him manipulate me to fund his habit, while getting a free luxury trip out of it. The rules, the control, the disrespect – it wasn’t about “Sylvie.” It was a game. A sick, twisted game designed to make me feel small, to distract me, while they laughed behind my back and I paid for their charade.
I backed away silently, the sand suddenly feeling like broken glass beneath my feet. My throat was tight, my eyes burning. The man I loved, the man I wanted to help, had used me, lied to me, and brought his whole family in on the deception. He hadn’t been carrying a burden; he’d been hiding a secret, and I was just the latest mark. The tropical paradise had become my own personal hell. All I wanted was to go home. And never see any of them again.
