I never imagined that marrying my childhood best friend, Michael, would unravel a nightmare instead of a dream. It all started when we reunited by chance in our hometown — a coffee run turned into hours of catching up, old memories rekindled, and quickly, love bloomed again. Within months, Michael proposed, and we were married in a simple but heartfelt ceremony. That night, instead of celebrating, he handed me a worn notebook filled with his mother’s handwritten notes — a family “curse” said to haunt any woman who married into their bloodline.

At first, I laughed it off as superstition, but the weeks that followed made me question everything. My business started crumbling, our honeymoon was delayed by bizarre setbacks, and even our house was broken into. As the misfortunes piled up, Michael’s unease grew — he started to believe the curse might be real. But then, just before Thanksgiving, I overheard a phone call between his parents. His mother, Marianne, laughed with chilling pride, bragging about how she had orchestrated everything to scare me off, just like she had with all the women before me.

I played the recording for Michael that night. His shock and heartbreak were immediate, but he needed answers. We confronted his parents, and under pressure, his father confessed to knowing it all along. Marianne had deliberately sabotaged every relationship Michael ever had, believing no woman was ever “good enough” for her sons. The so-called curse was nothing more than her manipulative games — and this time, she had nearly succeeded in tearing us apart.

Michael was devastated. But when we left his childhood home that night, hand in hand, there was clarity in his eyes. We knew healing would take time, but the truth had set us free. We left behind the lies, the fear, and the grip of a woman who mistook control for love — ready to rebuild our life together, on our own terms.