The next morning, the restaurant buzzed with the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of other couples on their own honeymoon. The sun filtered through the high windows, painting the polished wood with warm amber. Ethan sat across from me, his fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes flicking to the entrance every few seconds.
When Lena—Ethan’s mother—entered, the room seemed to shift. She moved with a deliberate grace, her navy dress hugging her figure, her hair pinned back in a tight knot that reminded me of the way she had once folded my napkin at our first dinner together.
She walked straight to Ethan, planted a light kiss on his cheek, and then turned her gaze toward me. The smile that spread across her lips was not friendly; it was a rehearsed, almost theatrical smile that seemed to say, “I’m here, and I’m watching.”
“Marriage takes practice, sweetheart. My son has always needed a certain kind of woman.”
Her words landed like a soft stone on the table. I swallowed, feeling the dry scrape in my throat, and forced a smile that cracked at the edges.
Throughout breakfast, Lena’s eyes never left my plate. She commented on the way the eggs were cooked, on the way the coffee smelled, and occasionally, as if checking a mental list, she would ask Ethan, “Did you tell her about the vows?” The question was a reminder that she was cataloguing every detail.
Poolside Insults and Midnight Visits
The second day, the sun was a relentless overseer. The pool glistened, a mirror to the sky, and the scent of chlorine mixed with the salty breeze that came off the ocean. I floated on an inflatable ring, trying to let the water wash away the sting of Lena’s words.
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She appeared at the edge of the pool, a wide‑brimmed hat shielding her face, a glass of rosé in hand. She slipped into the water beside me, the ripples catching the light.
“Ethan doesn’t like your pale skin,”
