My MIL Ruined My Honeymoon – but Then Karma Hit Her Three Times Harder

And another thing? The commentary never stopped.

That was a lie.

"Oh, Marie, you're ordering pasta again? Carbs are so hard on the body after 30."

At dinner, she reached for the wine list, then looked at Brian.

"You never told me she had tattoos, son. You always liked girls who kept things classy. What happened?"

I kept my expression calm. I bit the inside of my cheek and let silence do the heavy lifting.

"Oh, Marie, you're ordering pasta again?"

That night, I slipped out onto the balcony, phone in hand, and hit record on my voice memo app. It had become a habit.

"If I speak up," I whispered. "I'll be the villain. I'll be the hysterical new wife who couldn't handle a little family time."

Behind me, Brian slid the door open. He handed me a glass of wine and leaned against the railing.

"If I speak up. I'll be the villain."

"She's old," he said softly. "And she loves me. That's all this is. I swear."

"Then why does it feel like she's trying to cut me out of the picture?"

"She's leaving on Thursday. I bought her return ticket. Just... hang on a little longer, babe. Please."

I looked at him, at the quiet apology in his face.

"That's all this is. I swear."

"I'm trying," I said finally, fingers tight around the stem of the glass. "But I feel like I'm losing you by inches. And she's smiling while it's happening."

Thursday came, and Giselle didn't leave.

We rolled her suitcase out together, Brian chatting nervously while Giselle clutched her purse like she was boarding a yacht, not a cab.

"I feel like I'm losing you by inches."

As the driver stepped out to help, she suddenly gasped and stumbled back.

"My leg!" she cried, grabbing her thigh like it had been shot. "I heard something pop — I can't move!"

She collapsed onto the sidewalk in slow motion. Her suitcases tipped over, and her sunhat flew into the street like a warning flare.

"Mom? What happened?! Are you okay?" Brian asked, crouching beside her.

"I heard something pop — I can't move!"

"I twisted something," she groaned. "It hurts so much. Oh, sweetheart, help me. Please don't let them take me!"

"So, is she still going to the airport?" the cab driver asked, looking between us, confused.

"Obviously not," Giselle hissed. "Tell him to leave."

We offered to take her to the ER or call the hotel's on-site doctor, but she just waved us off like a martyr.

"No, no. I just need a little ice and some rest," Giselle said, her head in her hand. "I'll be fine tomorrow."

"Tell him to leave."

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