My husband looked away.
That hurt more than anything.
Because I had spent the entire day believing I was marrying someone who would stand beside me no matter what.
But within hours of becoming his wife, I was standing in a room where two generations of his family had decided what I should accept without even asking me.
My father-in-law slowly sat on the edge of the bed.
“The tradition is not what I told you.”
My eyebrows tightened.
“Then what was it?”
He looked at the kitten.
“This little one belonged to my wife.”
The room became quiet.
My husband’s mother had passed away three years earlier.
I knew the story.
Everyone knew the story.
She had been the heart of their family. The woman who cooked every holiday meal, remembered every birthday, and kept everyone connected.
But my father-in-law rarely talked about her.
“I found this kitten outside our house two weeks before she died,” he continued. “She loved animals. She said this little one was a sign that something beautiful could still enter our home even during difficult times.”
His voice became softer.
