You’ve been with him for three years, three steady, loving years that made you believe you truly knew him. The engagement felt like the start of forever, the promise that all those late nights, small fights, and tender moments had built into something unbreakable. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration, dinner with his mother, something simple, something warm.

But from the moment she saw you, her eyes said everything her polite smile didn’t. "That skirt’s quite short," she remarked lightly, her gaze sharp. "I suppose that’s just how girls dress now, isn’t it?"

You smiled, tried to brush it off, but she wasn’t done. Her tone stayed calm, her words steady, the kind of cruelty that sounded almost kind. "My son has always needed someone who understands responsibility. Marriage isn’t about appearances, you know. You’ll have to learn that." Then, with a soft chuckle, "You do seem delicate. I wonder if you’ll manage when things get difficult."

The sting in your chest tightened, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. You looked toward him, the man who promised he’d always be by your side, and he met your eyes, silent. His hand reached for yours under the table, a small, trembling squeeze that said I’m sorry more than anything else.

But he didn’t speak. And his mother didn’t stop.

"Pretty faces don’t last forever, dear," she went on, ignoring the way he shifted in his seat. "A wife should know her worth in what she gives, not how she looks."

You sat there, his hand still around yours, your throat tight. He didn’t defend you. He didn’t correct her. He just held on, as if his silence could protect you from words that were already sinking in too deep.

The dinner continued, but nothing tasted the same after that.