Three nights later, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Ryan,” I said quietly as we sat in the living room. “We need to talk.”
He stiffened. “About what?”
“I heard you.”
His face went pale. “Heard… what?”
“That night. In her room.”
Silence fell between us like a heavy curtain.
“You shouldn’t have been listening,” he said finally.
“I wasn’t trying to,” I replied, my voice trembling. “But what I heard—Ryan, what is going on?”
He stood up, pacing the room. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me,” I said. “Because right now, I feel like I don’t even know my own husband.”
He stopped.
Took a breath.
Then, in a voice so quiet it almost broke, he said:
“My mother doesn’t believe in sharing.”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means… she’s been preparing me my whole life to never leave her.”
My stomach dropped.
“When my dad left,” Ryan continued, “she fell apart. I was all she had. And she made sure I knew that.”
“How?”
“She’d get sick whenever I spent time away. Panic attacks. Fainting. Doctors couldn’t find anything wrong.” He let out a hollow laugh. “But it always worked.”
“And when you met me?”
“She hated it.”
“Then why did you marry me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He looked at me, eyes filled with conflict. “Because I love you.”
My chest tightened.
“Then why does it feel like I’m competing with her?” I asked.
He didn’t hesitate this time.
“Because you are.”
