In the next days, I gradually realized something was wrong.
Margaret was always by her son’s side – everywhere, all the time.
As I cooked breakfast, she tasted it first. As I touched my husband’s hand, she interrupted with some absurd excuse.
Every evening, she knocked on our door, under the pretext of “saying goodnight.”
However her eyes weren’t on me – they were on Ethan, with a look that was both gentle and powerful.
“My son has always needed me,” she said once when we were alone.
“He’s fragile. Don’t try to change that.”
I realized: this wasn’t normal maternal love.
But it was possessiveness disguised as love, and Ethan – the husband I loved – was being held back by it
One night, I woke up because of the sound of soft crying in the attic.
I walked up and opened the door to the room that had been locked since I moved in.
In the dim yellow light, I noticed old photos plastered all over the wall: pictures of Ethan from childhood to adulthood – mostly alone or with his mother.
On the table, there was a diary.
The first page read:
“After the ac:ci:dent, it was just you and me. Your father d:ied, but people blamed your mother.”
“From then on, I swore I would never let anyone take you away again.”
I shivered.
The next page had scribbled, erased, and repeated words:
“She can’t take him away. No one can.”
And at the bottom was my wedding photo – my face torn to shreds.
I brought the diary to Ethan to see.
He was silent for a long time, then said:
“When I was 10, my father d:ied in a fire. The police suspected my mother of causing it, but there was not enough evidence.
She lost all faith, and from then on she kept me by her side.
Anyone who came near me – friends, girlfriends – disappeared.”
I choked up.
“Do you believe your mother is hiding something?”
He nodded:
“I always felt… my father’s de:a:th was not an accident.”
One evening, I made a decision to confront her.
As Ethan went out, I looked for Margaret in the study.
“You don’t have to control him anymore,” I said, my voice trembling.
“You saved him from the world, but you also kept him in fear.”
“You don’t understand. The world took everything from me. I only kept what was left!”
“But you’re k:il:ling your son,” I replied.
She approached me, her voice cold:
“If you really love him, then leave. Because one day, you too will disappear – like his father, like everyone else.”
The next morning, Ethan and I prepared to leave the house.
But when we walked out the door, the maid handed me an envelope.
Inside was a letter, in a familiar handwriting:
“Claire, please forgive me.
The accident back then… I didn’t cause it.
But I let him d:ie, because I believed he wanted to take you away.
I just wanted to keep you safe, but now I know, safety is not imprisonment.
Let my son be free.”
Ethan finished reading, speechless.
From afar, Margaret stood by the window, her eyes wet, but more peaceful than ever.
Un mois plus tard, nous avons déménagé dans une autre ville. Ethan a commencé une thérapie, apprenant à se séparer de la dépendance invisible qui l’avait suivi tout au long de son enfance.
Quant à moi, je prie tous les soirs pour cette mère, une femme à la fois pitoyable et terrifiante, prisonnière de sa propre obsession.
« L’amour ne k :ill pas toujours », ai-je écrit dans mon journal,
« Mais la possession au nom de l’amour, c’est possible. »
Il y a des mères qui aiment tellement leurs enfants qu’elles transforment leur amour en chaînes.
Il y a des douleurs du passé qui font croire aux gens que le contrôle est le seul moyen de protéger.
Mais le véritable amour – qu’il vienne d’une mère ou d’un mari – n’existe que lorsque nous osons lâcher prise pour que celui que nous aimons puisse être libre. ❤️
