I met Scott on a rainy Tuesday afternoon at a quiet coffee shop. It was the kind of unexpected moment you see in movies but never think will happen in real life. My Wi-Fi had crashed, I was facing a deadline, and stress was starting to take over. Then a voice beside me said, “Need a hotspot? Mine’s pretty strong.” I looked up and met a pair of kind eyes and a warm smile. We started talking that day—and never really stopped.

Scott was thoughtful in a way that felt natural. He remembered little things: how I didn’t like pulp in my orange juice, the name of my high school English teacher, how I took my coffee. He called his mom every day. At the time, I thought it showed how loving and loyal he was. If he could care for her like that, I assumed he’d treat me the same way.

After we got married, Scott moved into the home I’d inherited from my late aunt—a house I’d spent years renovating and making my own. One week into our marriage, the doorbell rang. There stood Gloria, his mother, with two large suitcases and a polite smile.

“I’m here to help you both settle in,” she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.