I married Daniel young. We built our home together, every corner reflecting us—our laughter, our fights, our dreams. I loved the rhythm of our life: morning coffee, evening walks, weekends with friends. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.
Then came his mother. She arrived with a suitcase and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Just for a while,” Daniel said. I believed him. But days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Suddenly, she was everywhere—rearranging furniture, criticizing my cooking, claiming the best chair in the living room.
