Every morning after her hospital shifts, Rachel would come straight to my place. It was our routine—she’d shower, sleep, and we’d share a quiet moment before work pulled us apart again. But one day, she just stopped coming, without warning. When I asked why, she brushed it off, saying she was tired. But something felt off.
The truth came out weeks later when I visited her. She finally admitted that my mom’s basement tenant, Roger, had made inappropriate comments to her—telling her she was disruptive and should pay rent if she kept showing up. Worse, my own mother backed him up, telling Rachel it would be better if she showered elsewhere. Rachel was humiliated and stopped coming over.
I was furious. Rachel had always been respectful, and suddenly she wasn’t welcome in my home—one I paid rent for. I packed my bags and left. Rachel’s grandmother took us in temporarily, and we started looking for our own place. I didn’t speak to my mom for days.
When I finally confronted her, she tried to justify everything. That’s when she slipped—she admitted Roger meant “a lot” to her. It clicked: she was having an affair while Dad worked in Alaska. I was heartbroken, not just for me, but for my father.
Rachel and I found a small apartment and built a new life together. Six months later, I proposed in our kitchen. We married the following spring, with my dad there, and my mom absent.
Despite the hurt, we created something beautiful—something truly ours.
