“My son was supposed to tell you,” he said.
I looked at my husband.
“He didn’t.”
My husband looked away.
That hurt more than anything.
Because I had spent the entire day believing I was marrying someone who would stand beside me no matter what.
But within hours of becoming his wife, I was standing in a room where two generations of his family had decided what I should accept without even asking me.
My father-in-law slowly sat on the edge of the bed.
“The tradition is not what I told you.”
My eyebrows tightened.
“Then what was it?”
He looked at the kitten.
“This little one belonged to my wife.”
The room became quiet.
My husband’s mother had passed away three years earlier.
I knew the story.
Everyone knew the story.
