**The Shadow of the Past**
The evening draped the quiet suburb in soft darkness, the lamplight trembling on the wet pavement, reflecting the cold gleam of the autumn sky. Lydia sat in her empty flat, clutching an old teacup with a faded pattern, staring out the window where life passed her by. A storm raged inside her—love for her son tangled with bitterness and disdain for his wife, Annie. From the moment they met, Lydia couldn’t accept her, as though Annie were a shadow from the past, here to undo everything Lydia had so carefully built.
Annie had come into their lives like an intruder. Lydia had taken an instant dislike to her. A girl from a small village, motherless, with a father barely making ends meet—what could she possibly offer her son? Only Arthur, her boy, looked at Annie with such tenderness that Lydia felt the sharp sting of jealousy. He saw light where she saw only threat.
Annie remembered the evening it all began. She and Arthur had come to Lydia’s for dinner, nerves twisting her stomach as she smoothed her dress, desperate to make a good impression. Arthur squeezed her hand tightly. But the moment they sat down, Lydia, without hiding her contempt, declared, “You’re not good enough for my son.” Annie tried to argue, to say she loved Arthur with all her heart, but Lydia only smirked. Then Annie, choking on hurt, replied, “The heart doesn’t ask permission.” That was the point of no return.
For Annie, the battle with Lydia became a war. She’d always thought herself strong—growing up without a mother had hardened her. Her father, stern but loving, taught her to take a punch and never back down. But Lydia wasn’t just a mother-in-law—she was a storm, sweeping away everything in her path. Every glance, every word cut like glass. Annie felt her confidence melting like snow in the sun.
Memories of her childhood washed over her. She’d grown up in a village where everyone knew each other, where her father fixed the neighbours’ appliances and taught her to be honest. Those lessons had kept her standing, but now, facing Lydia, she felt like a child lost in a strange city. Lydia spared no cruelty—mocking her roots, her father, her dreams. It was as if she’d forgotten she’d once been a hopeful young woman herself.
When Annie and Arthur announced their wedding, Lydia erupted. She screamed that Annie had ruined her family, clutched her chest, begged her son to reconsider. Arthur tried to calm her, but her tears were a weapon. In the end, the wedding went on without her—a quiet affair tinged with sorrow. Annie had dreamed of a big, warm family, full of smiles and support, but instead, she got silence and scorn.
Arthur loved Annie deeply, but the rift with his mother weighed on him. He knew Lydia acted out of love, but her love was like chains—heavy, suffocating. His father had died when he was young, and Lydia had devoted her life to him, smothering him in care that often became control. Annie was his escape—her laughter, her lightness, a breath of fresh air. Now he felt torn between two women, each demanding his allegiance.
When Annie and Arthur had a daughter, Lydia seemed to soften. She came to see her granddaughter, but the first dinner ended in disaster. Lydia attacked Annie again, calling her a “country bumpkin” unfit for their family. Annie, fighting tears, tried to explain that she and Arthur were building their own life, that their daughter was their joy. But Lydia wouldn’t listen, her words lashing out even in front of Annie’s father and the tiny baby.
Now, Annie and Arthur lived apart, in a small house her father had helped them build. Arthur worked construction, Annie cared for their daughter. Lydia still threatened—to cut him out of the will, to leave everything to her dog. She even begged Arthur to leave Annie, promising to “fix everything.” But Arthur stood firm—he’d chosen his family and wouldn’t break it.
They hadn’tThey hadn’t spoken to Lydia in months, but one evening, as the baby giggled in Arthur’s arms, Annie picked up the phone and dialed, because love, no matter how buried, sometimes finds its way back.
