After I married Michael, my childhood sweetheart, I thought we’d finally reached our happy ending. But that feeling didn’t last. Just after we moved in together, he handed me a worn, old notebook that changed everything.
It all started with an unexpected encounter on Main Street in our small hometown. I was just grabbing a coffee, same as I’d done hundreds of times before, when I saw him—Michael, standing right outside the café we used to go to after school.
He looked just like I remembered, with that same warm smile, though now there was a hint of gray in his hair.
“Michael?” I called out, almost unsure if it was really him.
He turned around, and for a moment, he just stared at me, his face full of surprise. Then a wide grin broke out. “Is that really you?” he asked, his voice just as warm as I remembered. “I never thought I’d see you around here again!”
“Same here!” I laughed, feeling a rush of old memories. “What are the odds?”
We decided to go inside for coffee, like old times. The café hadn’t changed a bit—the wooden counters, the cozy smell of fresh pastries—it all felt like stepping back in time.
We talked for hours, reliving our shared past and laughing at all the memories, like that one time we got lost hiking and ended up at the wrong lake, or how we used to leave little notes for each other in history class.
Time seemed to slip away, and before we knew it, coffee turned into lunch, lunch into a long walk, and soon we were meeting up almost every day.
A few months later, Michael proposed in the simplest, sweetest way. We were by the lake one evening, the same lake where we used to meet as kids. He held my hands and looked at me with so much love in his eyes.
“I don’t want to waste any more time,” he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Will you marry me?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” I whispered, tears in my eyes.
Two months later, we had a small wedding with just close friends and family. After the ceremony, we drove to his family home—the same house where we’d spent many afternoons as kids. Everything was exactly the same: the wallpaper in the hallway, the old oak tree in the yard, even the creaky steps on the porch.
But that evening, as I was unpacking in our new room, I noticed Michael sitting on the edge of the bed, looking troubled. He was holding a small notebook, worn and faded, in his hands.
“Michael?” I asked, sitting down beside him. “Is everything alright?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the notebook, his fingers tracing the edges. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked at me.
“There’s… something I need to tell you,” he said, his voice low.
The tone of his voice sent a chill down my spine. “What is it?”
He passed me the notebook. “This belonged to my mom,” he explained. “She kept… notes in it. About things she believed were important for our family.”
I opened the notebook, and pages filled with neat handwriting met my eyes. It looked like a diary or a record of some kind. “What did she write about?” I asked, confused.
He hesitated. “My family believes in… a curse,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “They say that any woman who marries into the family is cursed with bad luck. Tragedy, pain… they say it’s been that way for generations.”
I almost laughed, thinking he was joking. But when I looked at his face, I saw he was serious. “Michael, come on,” I said, trying to sound calm. “Do you really believe in this ‘curse’?”
He ran a hand through his hair, looking torn. “I always told myself it was just a superstition, something silly. But… I’ve seen things,” he said slowly. “My dad’s marriage to my mom was rough, and my uncle… things ended badly for him, too.”
I took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “That doesn’t prove anything, Michael. Every family has struggles.”
He tried to smile but looked unconvinced. “Maybe you’re right,” he said quietly.
But then, right after our wedding, strange things started happening. First, there was a flat tire right before we were supposed to leave for our honeymoon. “Just a little bad luck,” I told him, laughing it off. But then we got back home, and things only got worse.
My business, which I’d worked so hard to build, suddenly began losing clients. Bad reviews popped up online, all from people I’d never even worked with. I tried everything to fix it, but it felt like everything I’d built was crumbling.
Then, someone broke into our house. They didn’t take anything valuable, but the invasion left us both feeling shaken and uneasy.
One night, Michael looked at me, worry etched on his face. “Do you think… do you think this curse could be real?”
“Of course not,” I replied quickly, but I was starting to doubt myself. “There must be an explanation.”
The final straw came right before Thanksgiving. Michael’s mom insisted we host the holiday dinner. While we were on the phone discussing the menu, I accidentally left the line connected. As I sat down to read a book, I heard voices from the phone.
“Do you think this curse nonsense is still working?” I heard Michael’s dad ask, sounding annoyed.
I froze, then pressed the record button.
His mother laughed, a chilling sound. “It works every time! Look at her—her business is falling apart, and Michael is so stressed he can hardly think. I’ll put an end to this when I ruin her turkey.”
“Enough, Marianne,” his father replied. “You’ve already scared off enough women from our sons.”
“If they aren’t good enough for my boys, I’ll do what I have to,” she said coldly. “I know what’s best.”
My stomach dropped as I ended the call. All those strange misfortunes—the flat tire, the lost clients—it had been her. There was no curse. It was all a twisted scheme to control her sons and their wives.
That night, I sat across from Michael, clutching my phone. “Michael, there’s something you need to hear,” I said, my voice shaking.
He looked concerned. “What’s wrong?”
I pressed play, and his mother’s voice filled the room.
Michael listened, shock and pain flashing across his face. “This… this can’t be right. She wouldn’t do this.”
I took his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true.”
He looked at me, determination hardening his face. “I need to confront her. I need to hear it from her myself.”
We drove to his parents’ house that night. When his father opened the door, Michael pushed past him. “Where’s Mom?” he demanded.
Marianne appeared, her face a mask of innocence. “Michael, what’s going on?”
He held up my phone. “I heard you, Mom. You’ve been sabotaging us. Scaring off women, making them think they’re cursed.”
Her expression changed, her eyes narrowing. “Michael, I don’t know what you think you heard, but—”
“You know what you did, Marianne,” his father interrupted, stepping forward. “There’s no point in denying it.”
Her face twisted with anger. “Don’t you dare!”
“Don’t I dare?” His father’s voice was weary. “I’ve watched you do this for years. This has to stop.”
Michael’s face crumpled. “So it’s true?” he whispered. “All of it?”
Tears filled her eyes. “I did it because I love you,” she said, reaching out to him.
He stepped back, shaking his head. “This isn’t love. It’s control.”
As we left, Michael’s shoulders slumped, the weight of years of lies and pain settling on him. He looked at me, his eyes filled with regret. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
I squeezed his hand. “We’re free now, Michael. That’s what matters.”
But as we walked to the car, I couldn’t shake the sadness. We had broken free, but the scars of his mother’s betrayal would take time to heal. What do you think of the story? Share your thoughts in the comments below!
