Her mother, Maris—my first wife—died of cancer when Aurelia was 15. After the funeral, the house felt hollow. Aurelia withdrew, and I buried my grief to be her anchor.
Years later, I met Vionna. She was warm, lively, and had a 13-year-old daughter, Sarelle. We married, blending our families. For a while, it worked. But Aurelia stayed guarded. Vionna was never openly cruel—just distant. Her coldness came in quiet corrections and subtle jabs: posture critiques, calling Aurelia “your daughter,” and nitpicking her tone. Sarelle mirrored her mother’s smirks and eye rolls. Aurelia kept the peace for my sake. I told myself Vionna was adjusting. I told myself I was imagining things.Continue reading…
