My mother and my wife had a relationship. And for years it never got better. It was bad from day one. Even on my wedding day, my mother made a scene. I had hoped that with time, things would improve, that my mother would eventually see my wife as the wonderful person I knew she was. I wanted to believe that family bonds would prevail, but I was wrong. My mother did everything she could to sabotage the relationship. I don’t know why she did not want to support me. She made remarks, she spread gossip, and she even tried to interfere with our plans. It was exhausting and disheartening. I tried to mediate, to explain my wife’s perspective, and to plead for understanding, but my mother was unrelenting. Two years after the wedding, my mother passed away. It was a difficult time for everyone, and I had a lot to process. In the midst of my grief, I had the responsibility of emptying her house. As I went through her belongings, I found old photographs, letters, and mementos that triggered waves of memories. It was a bittersweet experience, filled with both joy and sadness. I wanted to be respectful of the things she had. My wife and I spent a lot of time together. We would talk about our days and talk about our future. And so time kept passing and eventually my mother passed away. It was tough on me. I had a relationship with her and I loved her. But she never loved my wife.
…………………………………………..
👇 [ CONTINUE READING ] 👇
…………………………………………..
One day, while I was organizing the items in her bedroom, I decided to check under her bed. I wasn’t expecting to find anything of significance, but I wanted to be thorough. That’s when I saw it. It was a small, locked box, hidden beneath a pile of old blankets. My heart started to race. What could be inside? I tried to open it, but it was firmly secured. I searched for a key, but couldn’t find one. After a moment of contemplation, I decided to break it open.
With a hammer and a chisel, I carefully pried open the lock. The box creaked open, revealing its contents. Inside, I found a stack of photographs. As I started to examine them, my blood ran cold. They were pictures of my wife. But these weren’t ordinary photos. They were taken without her knowledge, in various locations and at different times. There were pictures of her at work, at the grocery store, and even in our own backyard.
I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. My mother had been stalking my wife. The realization was sickening and surreal. Why would she do something like this? What was she hoping to find? My mind raced with questions, but I had no answers. I continued to sift through the contents of the box. I found a journal filled with meticulous notes about my wife’s daily activities. My mother had been tracking her every move, documenting her habits, and analyzing her behavior.
The journal entries were filled with venomous remarks and unfounded accusations. My mother had convinced herself that my wife was a terrible person, someone who was out to destroy our family. She saw her as a threat, an enemy who needed to be monitored and controlled. I couldn’t believe the depth of her obsession and the extent of her delusion. It was clear that her hatred for my wife had consumed her, driving her to engage in this bizarre and disturbing behavior.
I confronted my wife with the evidence I had found. She was shocked and devastated. She couldn’t understand why my mother would do such a thing. It was a betrayal of trust, a violation of privacy, and a cruel reminder of the animosity she had faced since the beginning of our relationship. We talked for hours, trying to make sense of it all. In the end, we decided to focus on our own happiness and to not let my mother’s actions define us. It wasn’t easy, but we were determined to move forward, together. The scars of the past may never fully heal, but we refuse to let them overshadow our love and commitment to each other. The stalking was intense.
