“Cancel Your Wedding!” My Grandma Told Me In A Dream The Night Before My Big Day. “Wake Up Early And Go To Your Mother-In-Law’s House. You’ll See Everything.” I Drove There At Dawn, Pulse Racing. When I Stepped Inside… I Stopped Cold. What I Saw Shifted Everything.

Always that word. In the middle of the afternoon, Mary was in her office when an idea burst in like a lightning bolt.

What if I do not get married? What if I do not really know the man I am going to share my life with? She looked at her agenda.

Everything was there—timelines, payments, guest lists, crossed out names, chosen flowers, confirmed caterer—but there was no room for doubt, as if getting married were a business operation and not a vital decision. That night she went to sleep with restless thoughts. The city was gradually becoming silent, and the darkness of the room embraced her with its familiar coldness.

Mary took a long time to fall asleep. She tossed and turned. She squeezed the pillow.

She uncovered herself. She covered herself again. And then she saw her clearly.

Her grandmother—her second mother—the woman who raised her when her parents worked all day, who taught her not to beg for love, to recognize signs, not to ignore gut feelings. Claraara had died four years ago after a long battle with diabetes. Mary still kept her handkerchief on the nightstand.

But what happened that night was different. The dream did not seem like a dream. Claraara was sitting in the dining room chair, the same one where she used to read in the afternoons.

She was wearing her light blue robe and her plush slippers. Her face was serene, but her eyes—her eyes burned. “Cammy,” she said, using the pet name that only her grandmother used, “listen to me closely, because I do not have much time.

“You have to get out of there. Those people are not good.”

Mary could not move. She could barely feel her body.

She just listened. “Do not marry him. He is not who he says he is.

“Tomorrow, go to his mother’s house. Go alone. “You will understand everything.”

Mary tried to speak.

She could not. Claraara got up, took her hand, and whispered, “This is not love, my girl. “It is a trap.

“You have to wake up.”

And she woke up, sweating, gasping. The clock showed 4:46 in the morning. She sat up in bed.

Everything seemed normal. The room silent, the lights off, but something inside her was trembling. She got up, walked to the kitchen, turned on the light, poured herself a glass of water.

Her hands were shaking. She looked at the calendar. Saturday—meeting with Theresa.

She took a deep breath. Then she decided. “I am going to go earlier alone,” she murmured, feeling her grandmother’s voice still floating in the air.

She would not say anything to Robert. The next day, she dressed without haste. Denim pants, a simple blouse, hair tied back.

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