For thirty years, I’d run a successful accounting firm in Portland, raised Michael alone after his father passed, and saved every penny I could for his future. The $80,000 check I’d written as a wedding gift wasn’t just money. It was supposed to be the down payment on their first house, a foundation for their life together.

The warning signs started six months before the wedding. Michael had always been open with me, sharing his dreams and concerns over our Sunday morning coffee ritual. But after he met Jessica at a corporate retreat, something shifted, and our weekly calls became bi-weekly, then monthly.

When I’d ask about wedding plans, he’d say, “Jessica’s handling everything, Mom. She’s got it under control.” I met Jessica three times before the wedding, and each meeting left me with an uncomfortable feeling I couldn’t quite name.

At our first dinner, she’d interrupted Michael constantly, correcting his stories, speaking over him when he tried to share memories of his childhood.

“That’s not how successful people talk about their past,” she’d said with a tight smile. “We need to focus on the future.”