For three years, Michael and I had a strong relationship—talks of the future, shared dreams, real love. But there was one thing that always bothered me: he never introduced me to his family. He blamed it on his mother, calling her clingy, judgmental, and the reason past relationships failed. I wanted to believe him, but when he started acting distant—pulling money from our joint account and sneaking around—I suspected the worst.
One day, my best friend Kate and I were shopping when we spotted Michael… with another woman. She was gorgeous, clung to his arm, and looked way too comfortable with him. My heart sank. We followed them. He opened her car door. They laughed. She kissed his cheek.
Devastated, I jumped to the worst conclusion: he was cheating. Furious and impulsive, I stormed to her house, rang the doorbell, and—without thinking—threw my smoothie in her face, accusing her of stealing my boyfriend. She screamed. I walked away, proud of my dramatic revenge. At least, until the next day. Dinner with Michael’s family finally arrived. I was ready to expose him. But when he walked in with her—the woman I’d assaulted—I nearly fainted. “This is my mom,” he said.
I was speechless. Turns out, the woman I thought was his mistress was actually his mother, Cynthia. She smirked at me, cool and composed, and told Michael we were over. Then, came the real twist: Michael dropped to one knee. Right there, after everything. “Will you marry me?” he asked. Despite my embarrassment, despite the mess… I said yes. Cynthia stormed out. Michael stood his ground. And somehow, in the middle of all that chaos, love won.