Emma had never been this nervous. Today, the two people she loved most were about to meet for the first time. As she fluffed the cushions for the hundredth time, she couldn’t shake the unease in her stomach. Would her mother like Richard? Would Richard like her mother?
Ten years ago, a tragic car accident had stolen Emma’s father. Her mother survived but was left in a wheelchair, completely dependent on Emma. Their bond was forged in grief, solidified by necessity.
The doorbell rang. Emma’s heart leaped. Richard was here.
She led him into the living room, where her mother sat by the fireplace. “Hello, Mrs. Jackson. Emma speaks of you constantly—it’s an honor to finally meet you.” He held out a bouquet of flowers.
Mrs. Jackson took the bouquet, her expression unreadable. “Emma, darling, be a dear and make some tea.”
Emma hesitated but obeyed. As soon as the kitchen door swung shut, Mrs. Jackson’s gaze sharpened. “What do you want from my daughter?”
Richard straightened. “I love her, Mrs. Jackson. I hope to marry her.”
Mrs. Jackson’s lips curled ever so slightly. “Men like you never stay.”
Emma returned with the tea, sensing tension but ignoring it. As she poured, her mother took a slow sip, her eyes locked on Richard, never blinking.
Days later, Emma rushed home, breathless with excitement. “Richard proposed! We’re getting married!”
Mrs. Jackson turned a page in her book, her expression unreadable. “So soon?”
“It’s been six months,” Emma said firmly. “I love him.”
Mrs. Jackson barely looked up. “Do you? Or are you just afraid of being alone?”
Emma’s excitement dimmed. “That’s not fair, Mother. You don’t even know him.”
Mrs. Jackson sighed, setting her book down. “I know you, darling. And I know how easily you trust.”
That night, as Emma lay in bed, her mother’s words echoed in her mind, each syllable sowing doubt. Was she moving too fast? Was she afraid of being alone?
Then—Don’t you remember?
Her breath hitched. She knew exactly what her mother was referring to: the night she had seen her walking. Not rolling. Walking.
For years, she had convinced herself it was a stress-induced hallucination, the product of exhaustion and grief. But deep down, she had always known the truth.
One evening, as Emma was leaving to meet Richard, her mother rifled through her jewelry box. “My diamond ring is missing.”
Emma barely glanced up. “I haven’t seen it.”
Mrs. Jackson snapped the box shut. “If Richard arrives before you return, I’ll make him feel at home.”
Emma forced a smile. “I won’t be long.”
Richard arrived to find the front door unlocked. Inside was silent. As he stepped into the dimly lit hallway, a noise upstairs made him pause.
“Emma?” he called, climbing the stairs.
A shadow moved at the top landing. Mrs. Jackson stepped forward.
Standing.
Richard froze. “You—”
She smiled coldly. “Oh, but I can, dear boy. I can do many things.”
Panic surged through him as she advanced. He stepped back—too fast. His foot missed the top step. The world blurred as he tumbled, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
Blood pooled beneath him. Mrs. Jackson descended slowly, her steps deliberate. She pried open his clenched fist and placed a small velvet pouch inside before reaching into his jacket.
By the time Emma returned, the house was swarming with police. Her mother, back in her wheelchair, sobbed by the fireplace. “Oh, Emma, he tried to steal my jewelry! I shouted—he panicked and fell.”
Emma stared at Richard’s lifeless body, her world tilting. “I loved him.”
Mrs. Jackson reached out for the first time in years. “There, there, my dear. Mother always knows best.”
Emma let herself be embraced, but her fingers curled around something cold in her pocket—Richard’s engagement ring. She swallowed down her grief, steadying her breath.
Not yet.
The next morning, as Emma sat beside her mother, Mrs. Jackson patted her hand. “It’s good you listen to me, darling. I’ve always looked out for you.”
Emma smiled, her fingers grazing the ring in her pocket. “Yes, Mother. You always know best.”
But deep inside, something had shifted. She had known for years that her mother caused the accident that killed her father. And now, Richard.
Mrs. Jackson sipped her tea, unaware. Emma watched her carefully, her mind already moving the pieces into place.
It was time to show her that mother didn’t always know best.
