The Summer My Husband Chose His Mother Over Me
That summer was the hottest I’d ever lived through.
The air felt like fire. The sky didn’t have a single cloud, and the sun burned everything in sight. The sidewalk looked like it was melting. Just stepping outside made my skin feel like it was cracking. We gave up on blankets at night and just used a thin sheet.
The fan on my side of the bed became my new best friend. Our five-year-old daughter, Carlie, ran around the house in her tiny bathing suit like it was beach day, every day. She basically moved into the kiddie pool we got her for her birthday.
But my husband? Alex wore long sleeves.
Every single day.
Inside. Outside. Even to the store.
At first, I thought, Maybe he’s just being weird about his body. Maybe he’s insecure. He was always kind of a private guy.
But then I noticed how he would flinch when I touched his arm. How he would lock the bathroom door when changing—even though it was just me.
“Why are you wearing that again?” I’d ask.
He’d smile like nothing was wrong.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Ashton,” he’d say quickly. “Just got used to layers. You know… for work and all that.”
But it wasn’t nothing.
One night, I passed the bathroom and heard him talking on the phone. He was whispering, but I caught enough.
“I’m not keeping it from Ashton forever, Mom,” he said. His voice sounded tense. “She’ll understand when I tell her. I just need a little time. Let me figure it out.”
I froze in the hallway. When I heard the light switch flip, I rushed back to bed, pretending to be asleep. Alex crawled in beside me like nothing had happened.
The next morning, while Carlie and I made scrambled eggs in the kitchen, Alex walked in acting like everything was fine.
“I’m going to Mom’s,” he said cheerfully. “She needs help around the house. Carlie, want to come?”
Carlie wrinkled her nose. “Too hot. I’ll stay with Mommy and eat popsicles.”
At first, I believed him. Angela—his mother—was dramatic on her best days. She could turn a stubbed toe into an emergency.
But every time Alex came back from her place, he seemed… quieter. Like he left pieces of himself behind.
He stopped joking around with Carlie during bedtime stories. He stopped teasing me in the kitchen like he used to. He left dishes in random places, not even trying to clean up.
And me?
He hadn’t touched me in almost three weeks.
It was like living with a polite stranger.
I kept wondering if I had done something wrong. But the weirdness just got deeper.
Then, one afternoon, I was in the kitchen making chicken and mayo sandwiches for Carlie and me. She sat at the table with her crayons, drawing pictures of us.
She was working on Alex’s portrait when she asked sweetly, “Mom, can I have a pickle in mine?”
“Of course you can,” I said, smiling. “How’s your drawing going? Can you make me red-haired in this one? I’m thinking about changing my hair.”
Carlie giggled. “Don’t be silly, Mommy! But hey, do you know why Daddy is hiding his tattoo from you?”
The words hit me like ice water down the spine.
I blinked. “What tattoo, baby? Dad doesn’t have one.”
She tilted her head like I was the one being silly now. “Yes, he does! He was lifting his shirt in the bathroom, and I saw it.”
“Oh? And what did you see exactly?”
Carlie squirmed a little in her seat. “I don’t know how to write it, Mom. But it said, ‘My mommy Angela is my only love forever.’ Grandma wrote it, I think. It looked like my birthday card!”
She laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. “Isn’t that silly? You’re supposed to be Daddy’s only love!”
I nearly dropped the jar of pickles in my hand.
Angela. His mother.
I couldn’t believe it. The same woman who once told me I wasn’t “good enough to carry her grandchildren.” The same woman who sniffed at my wedding dress and said, “Well, second-best is still technically a prize.”
Now she had her words inked into my husband’s skin?
A whole sentence. In her handwriting. A love tattoo.
I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both.
That night, when Alex came home, I didn’t say anything. I cooked tacos for dinner. I watched him toss a salad, his sleeves rolled up just enough to tease but not to reveal.
“This heat is no joke,” he said. “We need to upgrade the AC.”
I wanted to throw the taco shells at his head.
Be patient, Ash. You’ll get your moment.
And I did.
After Carlie went to bed, I followed him into our room.
“Alex,” I said gently. “What’s on your arm? Did you hurt yourself?”
His face turned ghost white. “I… I was going to tell you, Ash. I just…”
“So it’s true?” I asked quietly.
He looked confused. “What is?”
“The tattoo.”
He closed his eyes, then nodded. “Yes. But how did you—oh. Carlie. She peeked into the bathroom.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I asked.
He sank onto the edge of the bed like it was made of fire. “She told me she was dying, Ash. Mom said she had a heart condition. That she might not survive the summer. She begged me to get something permanent. Something to give her hope.”
I stared at him in shock.
“So… she manipulated you into branding yourself like a six-year-old with a Sharpie?”
“I didn’t want to lose her,” he whispered. “She said it would help her fight.”
“You didn’t ask for proof? You hate tattoos, Alex.”
“She wrote it for me,” he said. “Said it’d mean more in her own handwriting.”
“Show me.”
He lifted his sleeve slowly.
And there it was.
Her messy handwriting. Her selfish words:
“My mommy Angela is my only love forever.”
I stared. Not just at the tattoo—but at what it represented.
“You haven’t been taking care of it, have you?” I asked.
“I’ve tried,” he said. “But the sleeves… it’s irritated. I know it looks bad.”
“Well,” I said bitterly, “Angela got her ‘final gift,’ didn’t she?”
“Don’t,” he whispered. “I need sleep.”
I walked out without another word.
That night, I sat under the stars with a cup of tea, sweat rolling down my back, my heart full of fire.
The next morning, I told Alex, “I’m taking some groceries to your mom. She’s probably too tired to shop.”
He looked relieved. “That’s thoughtful. Thanks, Ash.”
When I got to Angela’s place, she answered the door in a bright silk robe, perfectly made-up. Jewelry shining. Not a trace of illness in sight.
“Ashton,” she said. “This is a surprise.”
“I just wanted to check on you,” I said. “Alex told me things were serious. I brought groceries.”
She gave me a thin smile. “Oh, honey. I’m perfectly fine.”
I stared.
Then she said it. Calm. Cold.
“But I had to do something to remind you… I will always be the first and most important person in his life.”
That smile? It cut like a knife.
I drove home numb. When I walked in, Carlie was drawing again. This time, her superhero version of Alex had that same ugly tattoo on one arm. She added a cape. Giggled to herself.
I stared at her picture until my throat burned.
That night, while Alex slept, I made a decision.
Three days later, I walked into a tattoo studio with a sketch of my own.
The artist raised his eyebrows. “Not your usual quote,” he said.
“It’s not for anyone else,” I replied. “It’s a reminder. Just for me.”
Twenty minutes later, it was done.
That night, I sat on the bed in a tank top, dabbing ointment on the fresh ink over my collarbone.
Alex stood in the doorway, arms folded.
“You think you’re going to regret it?” he asked.
“Not for a second,” I said, without looking up.
“I think I already regret mine,” he whispered. “It felt like it mattered. But now… it just feels stupid. Like a kid’s mistake.”
“Because it was,” I said softly. “A kid’s move.”
He didn’t argue.
“I’ve been thinking of covering it up,” he said. “Carlie suggested a giraffe. She wants to name him Larry.”
“You should,” I said. “Unless you plan on sweating in sleeves forever.”
He gave a weak smile, then added quietly, “It’ll break her heart.”
“She lied, Alex. She’s fine. She admitted it. This was all just about control.”
He didn’t speak. Didn’t sleep in our bed that night. Said he had things to do in the garage.
It’s been three weeks.
I wear my new tattoo proudly across my skin:
“Self-respect, my only love forever.”
Alex looks at it sometimes. I see him glance. He still wears long sleeves. I don’t say anything.
Carlie? She thinks Larry the Giraffe will be the best cover-up ever.
“We can give him sunglasses!” she laughs.
“A giraffe is a better choice than a love letter to Grandma,” Alex says, managing a smile.
I don’t reply. I just look at my reflection and smile at myself. I’m not angry anymore.
I’m finally free.
Of the heat. Of the lies.
And most of all, free of hiding behind anyone else’s name.
This summer, I got burned.
But I also found my fire.
