My stepdad demanded a fresh-cooked meal every day, like it was the 1950s. When my mom tried reheating leftover food, he tossed it and said real wives cook daily. I watched her shrink under the man who’d forgotten what gratitude looked like. So I served him a taste of humility.

After Dad died six years ago, my mom, Colleen, moved through life like a ghost. They’d been college sweethearts, married for 32 golden years with the kind of love that doesn’t need spotlights. He’d bring her coffee every morning and kiss her temple before leaving for work. She’d fold his socks the way he liked—paired and rolled, never bunched.

I called her every day from two states away, but phone calls couldn’t fill the empty chair at her dinner table. “I’m fine, sweetie,” she’d say, but I could hear the hollowness in her voice.

Then came Raymond. He worked with Mom at the community college. He was an accounting professor with slicked-back hair and cologne you could smell before he entered a room. He started bringing her lunch and offered to fix things around the house. I was relieved someone was there, checking in on her when I couldn’t. “He makes me laugh again, Matty,” Mom told me over the phone. “Do you know how long it’s been since I really laughed?” Raymond always lingered and he somehow landed a place in her heart. The proposal came fast, and the wedding even faster. A beach ceremony with just 20 people… sand between toes. The whole thing looked sweet in pictures.

Mom wore a simple white dress, and Raymond looked genuinely happy. I pushed down my reservations and hugged them both. “Take care of her,” I whispered to him. “Always,” he promised, patting my back a little too hard. “Your mom deserves the world.” I wanted to believe him. Maybe that’s why I ignored the way he interrupted her during the reception, or how he complained about the cake being too sweet.

“Marriage is about compromise,” Mom said when I mentioned it later. “We’re both adjusting.” I was genuinely glad she’d found someone again. Someone steady. Someone who loved her. But God, I was wrong… so, painfully wrong. Six months later, I showed up at their doorstep with a basket of fresh muffins and enough clothes for a week-long visit. Mom hugged me tight, her frame smaller than I remembered.

“You’ve lost weight,” I said, studying her face. She waved me off. “Just trying to keep up with Raymond. He’s very particular about what he eats.” We settled in the kitchen with tea. Mom was in the middle of telling me about her garden when she suddenly pressed her fingers to her temple.