Our wedding night—supposed to be the happiest moment of my life—turned into a nightmare.
When we returned to our room, the door suddenly swung open. My father-in-law, a thin man in his sixties with deep-set eyes, walked in carrying a pillow and blanket.
“Tonight, I’ll sleep with you two,” he said, his voice calm, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “It’s a family tradition. On the first night, a ‘lucky man’ must lie between the newlyweds to ensure a son. Your grandfather did the same.”
I froze. I looked at my husband, expecting him to laugh it off—but he only nodded faintly, smiling.
“Dad, it’s just one night. Honey, this is how our family does things…”
My heart sank. I wanted to refuse, but I knew if I caused a scene on our wedding night, everyone would call me rude or disrespectful. So I stayed silent, lying at the edge of the bed, as far away as possible.
Three people, one bed. I barely dared to breathe. The air was thick, suffocating.
