I always knew something felt off. Michael and I were serious—talking about the future, spending holidays together—yet I had never met his family. He claimed his mother was “complicated,” that she had scared away past girlfriends, and he wanted to protect me. I believed him, until he started acting distant, pulling cash from savings, glued to his phone. I asked if he was planning to propose. He deflected, but then surprised me: his family would be joining us for dinner that weekend.

Still, doubt gnawed at me. While shopping with my friend Kate, we saw him at the mall—with another woman. She clung to his arm while he carried her bags and smiled at her like she was his whole world. Heartbroken, I followed them to an expensive house. When she kissed him goodbye, I snapped. Convinced she was his mistress, I rang her doorbell and threw a smoothie in her face.

Back home, Michael greeted me like nothing happened. I noticed lipstick on his cheek—my suspicions felt confirmed. I waited for the family dinner, ready to expose him. But when she walked in with his family, my world flipped.

“That’s my mom,” Michael said, stunned at my reaction.

I froze. I had assaulted his mother. Cynthia smirked, announcing we were breaking up. Michael defended me, but I admitted everything—following him, the smoothie. Cynthia gloated until Michael surprised us both.

He proposed. Right there. On one knee.

I said yes.

His mother stormed out. But Michael stayed by my side. And that was all I needed.