The next morning, I stocked the fridge with Oliver’s favorites—fresh berries, grass-fed steaks, imported cheese. Then I waited.

At 6:07 a.m., I heard the fridge door squeak. I stayed silent, heart pounding.

I crept into the kitchen. Half the groceries were gone—the good stuff, not leftovers. On the counter lay a neat grocery list in perfect cursive. Not Oliver’s handwriting.

Carol. My mother-in-law.

Grabbing my coat and keys, I followed Oliver’s car through quiet streets. He pulled into Carol’s driveway, unloading groceries. Carol greeted him in her robe, kissing his cheek.

That was the breaking point.

I slammed my car door. “So THIS is the shelter you’ve been feeding?”

Oliver stammered. Carol crossed her arms smugly. “I raised a son who knows how to care for his mother.”

“You raised a son who raids his wife’s fridge to feed Mommy,” I snapped.

Carol smiled sweetly. “You married into this family. That means you share.”

I laughed bitterly. “You’re about to learn what sharing really means.”