When Alex and I got married, it felt like the universe had finally dealt me a winning hand.
We met in our late twenties, past the phase of messy dating apps and “situationships.”
He was thoughtful, loyal, a genuinely good man. We didn’t have the drama that fueled other
people’s stories—we had the kind of quiet, solid love you build your future on.
Even better, our families clicked almost instantly. My mom and his mother bonded over their
shared obsession with gardening, Pinot Noir, and reruns of Murder, She Wrote. Before long,
they were having weekly lunches without us, trading family recipes and gossip like they’d known each other for decades.
I thought we had it all. Love, peace, and two moms who were thrilled their kids found each other. What could go wrong?
