The first year of marriage is supposed to be full of laughter, late-night talks, and cozy moments. But for Grace Turner, nights were filled with confusion. Every evening, as the clock struck nine, her husband Ethan quietly left their bedroom and disappeared down the hall—into his mother’s room.
At first, Grace tried to understand. Mrs. Turner was a widow, frail and grieving, and it made sense that her son would check on her. But soon, it wasn’t just a check-in. It became a ritual. Ethan would spend hours there, sometimes laughing, sometimes whispering, sometimes sitting in quiet conversation. And he never returned to bed until well past midnight.
Curiosity grew into unease. Grace loved Ethan, but she couldn’t shake the distance. Something deeper must be holding him there… something she didn’t yet understand.
One night, unable to bear it any longer, Grace followed him. The hallway was dim, the house silent. A warm glow spilled from under Mrs. Turner’s door. Heart pounding, she peeked inside.
Ethan sat on the edge of his mother’s bed, a worn leather-bound journal in hand. Mrs. Turner rested against pillows, eyes closed, a gentle smile on her face. Ethan read aloud, his voice soft, filled with emotion. “…‘To my dearest Eleanor…’”
Continue reading on next page…