Just the 2 of us. No kids, no family drama. Just peace.

Two weeks before we were set to depart, the dream began to crack.

I came home from work, my feet aching. Thomas was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking sweet tea. He looked up with a calm, rehearsed smile.

“I invited my mother,” he said.

My chest turned ice cold. I stopped breathing and didn’t notice for 15 seconds.

“You did what?” I whispered.

“Beatrice has had a hard year,” Thomas said, his voice smooth and unbothered. “She needs the ocean air. I thought it would be a nice surprise.”

“Thomas, I saved for 2 years for a couples’ trip,” I said, my jaw locking so hard I could hear my own pulse thumping. “It was supposed to be just us.”

“Don’t be selfish, Linda,” he replied, taking another sip of tea. “It’s handled. We can make room for her.”

Beatrice was a bitter woman who lived 10 miles away. She had spent 15 years criticizing my cooking, my clothes, and my family. The thought of being trapped on a ship with her made my stomach twist.

But it got worse.

The day we boarded the ship in Miami, the heat was sweltering. The air smelled of salt and diesel fuel. I was holding the blue vinyl folder, eager to finally see our suite.

We walked into the cabin lobby. Thomas took the keycards from the deck agent.

He turned to his mother. “Here is your keycard, Mom. Room 9012, the balcony suite.”

I froze. “Thomas, that’s our room. I paid for that view.”

“Linda, she has bad knees and needs the fresh air,” Thomas said, his face completely calm. “We got room 2045. It’s a cozy inside cabin.”

Inside cabin. A windowless, dark box on the lowest deck. It smelled like damp carpet.

I looked at Beatrice. She took the gold-plated keycard from Thomas, flashing me a smug smile.

“Thomas always takes care of his mother,” she said.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. Something behind my ribs folded in on itself.

I stood in the narrow hallway, my fingers gripping the blue folder so tightly the plastic crinkled. I just nodded once.