When my parents divorced, I felt relief rather than sadness. They were strangers sharing a roof, and I knew my mom, Sandra, deserved happiness. Years later, at 45, she finally found love again. When she called, voice bubbling with excitement, to tell me about her new boyfriend, Aaron, I was thrilled—until I met him. Standing in her dining room, I froze. Aaron was my age—25. My excitement vanished, replaced by disbelief. “He’s young enough to be your son!” I snapped. But Mom only smiled, saying age didn’t matter. When she revealed they were engaged, I was furious and stormed out.

Days passed, but my unease grew. Something about Aaron felt wrong. He had to be after her money. So, I pretended to accept him, offering to help plan the wedding. Secretly, I watched for signs—a lie, a slip-up—but he was perfect: polite, calm, and attentive. Still, doubt gnawed at me. Then, on the wedding day, fate intervened. Mom forgot her phone, and I volunteered to fetch it. Searching her house, I found a locked drawer. Curiosity won. Inside were papers—debt notices under Aaron’s name and property documents signed in Mom’s handwriting but forged. My worst fears exploded.

Heart racing, I sped to the venue. “Stop the wedding!” I shouted, waving the papers. The room fell silent as I accused Aaron of deceit. My mom trembled as she read the documents—then whispered, “Casey, these debts are because of you.” I froze. She explained they were buying a restaurant for me, my lifelong dream.

Aaron stepped forward, calm and sincere. “It was a surprise,” he said softly. “Your mom wanted to give you a fresh start. I covered the extra cost.”

Tears filled my eyes. I had tried to protect my mom—but ended up hurting her. Shame burned through me as she whispered, “You ruined everything.”

Aaron gently took her hand. “She’s your daughter,” he reminded her. “Don’t push her away.” My mom turned aside, silent. I quietly took a seat, my heart heavy with regret, realizing too late how blind my love had made me.