After my dad died, my mom, Colleen, was a shell of herself—quiet, lonely, and moving through life like a ghost. They had shared a 32-year love story full of warmth, small rituals, and mutual respect. I worried from afar, calling daily, knowing phone calls couldn’t replace companionship. Then came Raymond, a charming coworker who brought her lunch and offered help around the house. Soon he was making her laugh again. They married quickly, and I pushed aside my unease because she seemed happy again. But months later, during a visit, I saw the truth. Mom looked frail, pale, and worn down. When she suggested reheating lasagna, Raymond exploded, calling leftovers an insult and declaring that “real wives cook fresh meals daily.”
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