On my wedding night, I gave my bed to my mother-in-law.
She was drunk—too drunk to stand, slurring her words, clinging to the hallway wall.
“I can’t sleep on the couch,” she snapped. “My back.”
My husband hesitated. “Mom, this is our—”
“It’s fine,” I said quickly, forcing a smile. “I’ll take the guest room.”
I didn’t want conflict.
Not on the first night of our marriage.
She collapsed onto the bed in her dress, shoes still on.
I shut the door and slept lightly, uneasily, with a knot in my stomach.
The next morning, I woke up early.
The house was quiet.
I went back to our bedroom to grab my things.
That’s when I saw it.
Something dark and sticky smeared across the white sheets.
At first, my brain refused to process it.
I stepped closer.
The smell hit me.
My hands started shaking.
It wasn’t makeup.
It wasn’t wine.
It was blood.
Dried. Uneven. Like someone had wiped their hands across the fabric.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Mark?” I called out, my voice barely steady.
My husband appeared in the doorway, still half-asleep.
“What’s wrong?”
I pointed.
His face drained of color.
“That’s… that’s not possible,” he whispered.
Then we heard the sound from down the hall.
The bathroom door creaked open.
His mother stepped out slowly.
She looked… fine.
Too fine.
Calm. Clear-eyed. Sober.
She glanced at the bed and smiled faintly.
“Oh,” she said casually. “You found it.”
My stomach dropped.
“Found what?” I asked.
She tilted her head. “You didn’t really think last night was about me being drunk, did you?”
Mark stepped forward. “Mom—what are you talking about?”
She looked at him, eyes sharp.
“I needed to know,” she said. “If she was worthy of this family.”
I felt cold all over. “What did you do?”
She shrugged. “A small test.”
I backed away. “That’s blood.”
“Yes,” she said calmly. “Mine.”
Mark stared at her. “You hurt yourself?”
She smiled. “Barely. But fear reveals character.”
She turned to me.
“You didn’t scream,” she said. “You didn’t call the police. You didn’t accuse my son.”
My throat tightened. “That’s not normal.”
She stepped closer.
“Neither is marriage,” she said softly. “It’s endurance.”
Mark snapped. “This is sick. You need help.”
She laughed quietly.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, brushing past him, “I was just getting started.”
That afternoon, I packed a bag.
By evening, I was gone.
Mark called me a hundred times.
I answered once.
“I married you,” I said. “Not her.”
He didn’t argue.
He couldn’t.
Weeks later, a neighbor called me.
Your mother-in-law was taken away in an ambulance, she said.
Self-inflicted wounds.
Psych evaluation.
As I hung up the phone, I stared at my wedding ring.
Then I took it off.
Because whatever that woman wanted to test that night—
She succeeded.
She showed me exactly what kind of family I was marrying into.
And I walked away before the next test could be worse.
