Christopher barely noticed the tension.
He was already answering emails while eating breakfast.
His mother, however, noticed everything.
She criticized the curtains.
The furniture.
The meals I prepared.
Even the way I folded Christopher’s clothes.
I tried to ignore her until one afternoon, I walked into my kitchen and found her rearranging everything.
“Christopher likes things done differently,” she said.
“I’ve lived here for three years.”
She turned toward me.
“So?”
That one word hurt more than it should have.
That evening, I finally told Christopher.
“I feel like your mother doesn't want me here.”
He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes.
“Shelley, you're misunderstanding her. She's just trying to help.”
“Help with what? Replacing me?”
He kissed my forehead.
“I promise, you're imagining things.”
I wanted to believe him.
Then, the following Sunday, I overheard his mother whispering on the phone.
“My friend's daughter would be perfect for Christopher.”
My heart stopped.
And then she said something even worse.
“I'm going to make sure they meet.”
