On my wedding night, I had to give my bed to my mother-in-law because she was “drunk”; the next morning I found something stuck to the sheet that left me speechless.

Instead, Mark let out an irritated sigh and rubbed his temples. “Elena, please. It’s 6 AM. Don’t start a fight with Mom already. Just strip the bed and throw it in the wash. We have relatives coming over for breakfast in two hours.”

A sharp pain bloomed in my chest. In that single moment, the reality of my choice hit me like a physical blow. I hadn’t just married the man I loved; I had signed over my life to a toxic pair who viewed me as nothing more than a housekeeper in my own home.

Without another word, I snatched the broken locket from the bed and turned around, walking briskly toward the bathroom. I locked the door behind me and turned on the faucet to drown out any sound. Under the bright bathroom light, I opened the ruined locket.

Inside, beneath the dried brown residue, was the small photograph of my father. But it had been deliberately scratched out—scratched so hard with a sharp object that his face was completely erased.