When my son married Alice, I was in shock. Not because of the wedding, but because of his choice. Beautiful, yes. Young, yes. But too self-assured, with nails longer than a tiger’s, and a look as though she was already the boss, not only of the house but of the entire street.

I tried to be polite. She was cold. I baked pies — she ordered sushi. I offered help — she said, “We’ll manage.” My son was silent, as if caught between two fires.

I found myself more and more often thinking: “What has she done to my boy?”

And then I found… an earring. A woman’s earring. But not Alice’s. I know her jewelry — it sparkles like a Christmas tree. But this one was modest, silver, neat. It lay behind the sofa in the living room. I didn’t make a scene, but doubt began to settle in.

A week later — the second discovery. A note. On a small piece of paper: “Thanks for yesterday. It meant a lot to me. Yours, K.”

I knew it wasn’t Alice’s. And not mine either. My world wobbled. I decided to talk to Alice. I invited her for tea, without my son. I expected a scandal, tears, reproaches.

But she came calmly, with a homemade pie, sat down, and suddenly said:

— I know what you found.

I stiffened. She continued:

— She’s not his lover. She’s his therapist.

I froze.

— He suffered for over a year. After he was fired. He didn’t tell anyone. I noticed he was withdrawing. I convinced him to go to therapy. I didn’t tell you — he asked me not to. And the earring — it’s not an earring. It’s a pendant from her bracelet, which fell off in her bag. The note — it’s hers. She thanked him for his trust.

I sat there, silent. Then I began to cry. Because I felt like a fool.

I thought she was the one who tore them apart. But she became his salvation. And my family. Since that day, we’ve grown closer.