After marrying my childhood sweetheart, I thought our happily ever after had finally begun. That was until he handed me a notebook filled with his mother’s secrets.

I didn’t expect to run into Michael that morning. I was just grabbing my usual coffee, walking down Main Street in our old hometown, when I spotted him. Tall, familiar, with a hint of gray in his hair, he was standing outside the coffee shop we used to go to after school.

“Michael?” I called out, almost in disbelief. He turned, and for a second, he just stared. Then, a big grin spread across his face. “Is that really you?” he said, his voice warm, just like I remembered. “I never thought I’d see you around here again!”

“Same here!” I laughed. “What are the odds?” We decided to grab coffee together, just like old times. Inside the shop, everything felt like it had back then. The old wood counters and the smell of fresh pastries. It was almost like time had rewound itself.

We chatted for hours that day, catching up on everything and nothing. We laughed over old stories, like the time we both got lost on a hike or how we’d leave each other notes in history class. The hours melted away. Coffee turned into lunch, lunch turned into long walks, and before we knew it, we were calling each other every day. There was something so easy, so natural about being around him. A few months later, Michael proposed. It was simple, just him and me, sitting by the lake one evening.

“I don’t want to waste any more time,” he said, his voice steady but full of emotion. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Will you marry me?” I didn’t hesitate for a second. “Yes,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes. Two months later, we tied the knot.

After the wedding, we drove to his family home, where we’d spent many afternoons as kids. The house hadn’t changed a bit. Even the wallpaper in the hallway was the same, and the old oak tree in the yard was still there. Later that evening, after I’d freshened up, I came back to find Michael sitting on the edge of the bed, looking… different. His usual easy smile was gone. He was holding a small, worn notebook in his hands.

“Michael?” I asked, sitting down beside him. “Is everything okay?” He didn’t look at me right away. His eyes were on the notebook, fingers tracing the edge. “There’s… something I need to tell you.” The tone of his voice sent a chill down my spine. “What is it?” He took a deep breath, finally meeting my gaze. “This notebook is my mom’s,” he said quietly. “She kept notes… about our family. About something she thought was important.”

“Okay…” I said slowly, not quite understanding. He handed it to me, and I opened it. Pages and pages of neat, looping handwriting filled every page. “My family has this… belief,” he began. “A curse, actually. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but they believe it’s real.” “A curse?” I asked, eyebrows raised, trying to hide my skepticism.

He nodded. “My mom says that any woman who marries into the family… is cursed with bad luck. Tragedy. Pain. It’s happened for generations, or so she says.” I almost laughed but stopped myself when I saw the worry in his eyes. “Michael, you don’t really believe this, do you?” He ran a hand through his hair, looking torn. “I don’t know. I’ve always told myself it’s just an old family superstition. But… I’ve seen things, you know? My dad’s marriage to my mom wasn’t exactly smooth. My uncle — well, let’s just say things ended badly for him, too.”

I took his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Look, that doesn’t mean anything. Marriages are hard for a lot of people.” He gave a faint smile, but his eyes still looked troubled. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced. A week after the wedding, small misfortunes began to pile up. First, it was a flat tire right before we departed for our honeymoon, leaving us unable to drive anywhere. “Just bad luck,” I told him, forcing a laugh