On the wedding night I had to give up my bed to my mother-in-law because she was “drunk” — the next morning I found something stuck on the bedsheet that made me speechless… On the wedding night, I was exhausted after a long day of entertaining guests, therefore I retreated to my room, hoping to hug my husband and sleep soundly.
However as soon as I finished removing my makeup, the door opened: “Mom is too drunk, let her lie down for a bit, it’s too noisy downstairs.” My mother-in-law – a controlling, notoriously strict woman – staggered in, hugging a pillow, her breath reeking of alcohol, her shirt low-cut, her face red.
I was about to help her to the living room, but my husband stopped me: “Let Mom lie here, it’s only one night. One night. The wedding night.”
I bitterly carried the pillow down to the sofa, not daring to react because I feared of being branded “a new wife already rude”.
All night I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The shadow of someone upstairs walked back and forth, the sound of wood creaking, then silence. It was almost morning when I finally fell asleep.
As I woke up, it was almost 6 o’clock. I went upstairs, intending to wake my husband up and go down to greet my maternal relatives. I gently pushed the door open… and stood frozen. My husband was lying with his back facing out. My mother-in-law was lying very close to him, on the same bed I had given up. I approached, intending to wake him up. But as my eyes swept across the bedsheet, I suddenly stopped. On the pure white sheet… there was a dark red stain.
Not large.
Not messy.
But unmistakable.
My heart dropped straight to my stomach.
For a split second, my brain refused to process it. I stood there, gripping the doorframe, my pulse roaring in my ears. The room smelled faintly of alcohol… and something else. Perfume. Not mine.
I took another step closer, my hands shaking.
The stain wasn’t fresh, but it hadn’t been there the night before. I knew that for a fact. I had laid those sheets myself. Perfectly clean. Wedding-white.
I whispered my husband’s name.
He stirred slightly but didn’t turn around.
My mother-in-law slept soundly beside him, her back straight, her hair neat—as if she were in her own bed. Not drunk. Not helpless. Controlled. Composed. Exactly like the woman she’d always been.
Something clicked.
She wasn’t drunk last night.
She never was.
Suddenly, every sound from the night replayed in my head—the footsteps pacing above me, the creaking floorboards, the long silence that followed.
I stepped back, my legs weak.
That was when I saw it.
Near the edge of the bed, half-hidden under the blanket, was something small and metallic.
A brooch.
Her brooch.
She wore it at the wedding banquet. I remembered because she’d scolded me when I accidentally brushed against it, saying it was “valuable” and I should be more careful.
So why was it here?
Why was it on my bed?
I quietly picked it up, my fingers numb.
In that moment, I didn’t scream.
I didn’t wake them.
I didn’t cry.
I understood something far worse than betrayal.
This wasn’t an accident.
It was a test.
A warning.
A declaration of power.
I backed out of the room, closed the door gently, and went downstairs. My reflection in the mirror startled me—pale, eyes hollow, lips pressed tight to keep from shaking.
By breakfast, my mother-in-law appeared refreshed, perfectly dressed, sipping tea as if nothing had happened.
She smiled at me.
“So kind of you to give up your bed last night,” she said softly, loud enough for my husband to hear. “A good wife knows how to endure.”
My husband nodded, oblivious.
Something inside me hardened.
That afternoon, while everyone was busy greeting relatives, I went back upstairs alone.
I stripped the bed.
And underneath the sheet, tucked carefully between the mattress and the frame, I found the final piece.
A folded note.
Written in her handwriting.
“This house has always belonged to me.
Don’t forget your place.”
My hands stopped shaking.
I folded the note back, placed everything exactly as it was, and walked out with a calm I didn’t recognize.
Because at that moment, I realized:
This wasn’t the end of my marriage.
It was the beginning of a war.
And this time—
I would not give up my place again.