Grief changed my mother. After Dad passed, she folded into herself, becoming smaller each day. When Robert entered our lives, I was grateful – he made her smile, brought her tea, remembered her birthday. Their wedding day was the happiest I’d seen her in years.
But the fairytale ended quickly. Robert’s kindness had an expiration date. First, it was comments about her outfits being “too flashy.” Then her friends were “too loud.” Soon, she stopped wearing makeup, stopped going out, stopped being my mom. When I caught him throwing away her clothes while she watched mutely, I understood – he wasn’t just changing her habits. He was erasing her.
I didn’t confront him. I was smarter than that. Instead, I planned a rescue mission – a weekend “getaway” that became permanent emancipation. In that quiet lakeside cabin, the dam broke. She confessed everything – the constant corrections, the isolation, the way he’d convinced her she was lucky to have him at all.
Now, a year later, the transformation is breathtaking. My mother – the real one – is back. She wears red lipstick just because. She sings off-key in the shower. She tells terrible jokes and laughs the loudest at them. As for Robert? Let’s just say his prized possessions mysteriously found new homes. Some at Goodwill. Some at the dump. All exactly where they belonged.
