«Cancel your wedding immediately. Get up in the morning, go to your mother-in-law’s house, and you will see everything.» My deceased grandmother told me that in a dream the day before my wedding. When I arrived at my mother-in-law’s house, I was paralysed when I saw that.
Mary Adams was 30 years old. She was wearing soft fabric pants and a shapeless cotton t-shirt, one of those she wore when she did not need to prove anything to anyone. She was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, her face still damp from the shower steam.
In the reflection, she saw the usual large eyes, mascara-free eyelashes, and black hair pulled back haphazardly. What she did not see, but what she felt, was an anxiety that was not entirely explained.
The calendar hanging on the hallway wall marked that there were exactly 21 days left until her wedding. It was a dream wedding: a dress already bought, invitations sent, everything ready, everything decided. But in her chest that morning, something did not feel right.
She opened the window. The January air rushed in. She lived in a residential area in the upper part of the city, like a nice neighbourhood in Chicago, where the mornings were cooler and the neighbours barely greeted each other.
She liked the silence of her apartment, although sometimes, like today, she felt that silence was also taking its toll. Mary was a general accountant at an import company. She had built her life step by step, with effort.
She inherited the apartment from her parents after their death in an accident eight years ago. Her younger sister lived in another country, and her friends were almost all married. She, after so much avoiding it and after so many disagreements, had decided to commit to someone.
Robert Miller. Tall, with a deep voice and a confident smile. Brown eyes, 37 years old, owner of a small logistics business that, according to him, was expanding.
He had met her by chance during a bank appointment. He needed help reviewing some accounting documents, and she, at that moment, was the only professional available. He was courteous and interesting.
Mary did not see it coming, but in a matter of weeks, they were already having dinner together and talking about dreams. He was starting to appear in her long-term plans. Robert was different; he did not have the adolescent air of the men she had known.
He did not play hard-to-get. He was direct. And he had that protective touch that, although she did not openly admit it, made her feel seen.
He proposed to her three months ago at the most expensive steakhouse they knew. Mary remembered the soft piano music, the candlelight, and the waiter who suddenly appeared with a glass of wine. Inside, there was the ring.
It was not ostentatious. It was just right. Robert knelt down in the middle of the tables while other diners applauded.
Mary laughed, excited. She said «yes» without thinking much. And that was what tormented her today. Why did she not think more?
That morning, after coffee, she received a message from him: «My mum wants to see us this afternoon. She is excited about the banquet, can you?»
Mary’s finger trembled as she typed: «Yes, of course.» It was the logical, polite thing to do. But she could not forget the first time she visited that house.
She remembered it in detail. Teresa Miller, Robert’s mother, received them with a clean apron, a tight bun on her head, and a look that seemed to measure Mary’s worth with an invisible tape measure. Smiling but critical, polite but cutting.
«And you live alone?» she asked directly, pouring coffee without looking her in the eyes.
«Yes,» Mary replied. «A few years ago, I inherited my parents’ apartment.»
«In what area?»
«In High View.»
Teresa observed her as if she had just been told she lived in Beverly Hills. «Nice area, very sought after.»
That night, while they were washing the dishes, Robert told her in a low voice, «Do not take it personally. My mum was raised old-fashioned. It is hard for her to trust.»
Mary did not answer. But she never forgot the way Teresa, between questions about income, debts, inheritance, and family, avoided talking about her own son.
About Robert, she only said, «He is very good at business, but he needs a stable woman. Like you. Stability.» Always that word.
In the middle of the afternoon, Mary was in her office when an idea burst in like a lightning bolt. What if I do not get married? What if I do not really know the man I am going to share my life with?
She looked at her agenda. Everything was there: timelines, payments, guest lists, crossed-out names, chosen flowers, confirmed caterer. But there was no room for doubt, as if getting married were a business operation and not a vital decision.
That night, she went to sleep with restless thoughts. The city was gradually becoming silent, and the darkness of the room embraced her with its familiar coldness. Mary took a long time to fall asleep.
She tossed and turned. She squeezed the pillow. She uncovered herself, then covered herself again. And then, she saw her, clearly.
Her grandmother, her second mother, the woman who raised her when her parents worked all day. The woman who taught her not to beg for love, to recognise signs, not to ignore gut feelings. Clara had died four years ago after a long battle with diabetes.
Mary still kept her handkerchief on the nightstand. But what happened that night was different. The dream did not seem like a dream.
Clara was sitting in the dining room chair, the same one where she used to read in the afternoons. She was wearing her light blue robe and her plush slippers. Her face was serene, but her eyes—her eyes burned.
«Cammy,» she said, using the pet name that only her grandmother used. «Listen to me closely, because I do not have much time. You have to get out of there.»
«Those people are not good.»
Mary could not move. She could barely feel her body. She just listened.
«Do not marry him. He is not who he says he is. Tomorrow, go to his mother’s house. Go alone. You will understand everything.»
Mary tried to speak. She could not. Clara got up, took her hand, and whispered, «This is not love, my girl. It is a trap. You have to wake up.»
And she woke up, sweating, gasping. The clock showed 4:46 in the morning. She sat up in bed.
Everything seemed normal. The room was silent, the lights off. But something inside her was trembling.
She got up, walked to the kitchen, turned on the light, and poured herself a glass of water. Her hands were shaking. She looked at the calendar.