Two days later, we found ourselves in his parents’ living room, the air thick with unspoken tension. His mother poured tea, her movements precise, controlled.
« We received the trust document, » my husband began, voice steady but firm. « We’re hoping you can explain the conditions attached. »
His father, a stern man with a gaze that seemed to pierce through you, nodded. « It’s for your protection, and hers, » he said, gesturing at me. « To ensure the family legacy is preserved. »
« We appreciate that, » I interjected, « but it feels like there are strings attached. »
His mother’s smile was tight. « It’s just a safeguard, » she insisted. « A formality, really. »
But it didn’t feel like a formality. It felt like a net, cast wide and ready to ensnare us in obligations we hadn’t agreed to.
We left with more questions than answers, the weight of their expectations hanging over us like a storm cloud.
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