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“He just loves his mom,” I told myself.
“She’s a widow. She raised him on her own. That’s not a bad thing.”
The moment we got married and moved into our new apartment together, everything shifted.
If Stephanie called during dinner, Harry answered, even if I was mid-sentence, mid-story, or mid-breath.
He’d hold up one finger like I was an interruption, not his wife sitting across from him.
If we had plans and his mom suddenly needed help with moving furniture or picking up groceries, our plans evaporated. No discussion. No apology.
Once, on our anniversary, we were at a restaurant I’d been excited about for weeks.
Halfway through the appetizers, Harry’s phone buzzed.
“Mom’s having a hard night,” he said, already standing. “She feels lonely. I need to go check on her.”
I sat there with two full plates of food and a candle burning between us, watching him leave.
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