THE NIGHT THAT CHANGED MY MARRIAGE

On the first night of our marriage, my father-in-law asked to sleep between us because of a tradition called “the spirit of birthing a baby boy.”
At three in the morning, I felt something poking my back over and over.
When I turned around… I almost fainted.

The night that was supposed to be the most romantic of my life turned into a nightmare worthy of a soap opera.

Just as my husband, Lucas, and I entered the bedroom, the door swung open.
It was his father — Mr. Arnaldo — a quiet man with a stern face, carrying a pillow and a blanket.

“I’m sleeping here with you two.”
He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I froze.

“Here? In this bed?” I asked, expecting a joke.

But Lucas only gave me an awkward smile.

“Babe, it’s just a family tradition… On the first night, a ‘lucky man’ sleeps between the newlyweds to ensure the birth of a baby boy.”

My stomach twisted.

I wanted to refuse, to throw both of them out, but the same sentence kept echoing in my head:

“Be respectful, they’re a traditional family…”

I swallowed hard.
Took a deep breath.
And lay on the very edge of the bed, as far away as possible.

The night dragged on endlessly.

I wasn’t sleepy — I was anxious.

Then the touching started.

First, a light poke on my back.
Then a quick pinch.
And finally something that slowly slid from my lower back down to my thighs — like fingers searching.

My heart pounded violently.

“This isn’t normal.”

At exactly 3:00 a.m., I was shaking.
When I felt that thing move up my side again, I snapped.

I spun around — fast, terrified — and then…

My God.

My blood turned to ice.

What I saw wasn’t what I expected.
It was worse. Much worse.

Mr. Arnaldo was sitting upright in bed, eyes wide, breathing heavily…
But he wasn’t looking at me.

He was staring at something behind me.

I froze.

I turned slowly and realized Lucas — my husband — had rolled toward me in his sleep.
His limp hand was resting on my leg, moving slightly as he shifted positions.

But that didn’t explain everything.

When I looked back at my father-in-law, that’s when the real horror settled in.

He was holding a rosary in his hands, crying.

“I saw it… I saw the spirit…” he whispered. “It came… it came for the blessing… it passed through you… I felt it.”

And then it clicked:

It wasn’t him touching me.
It wasn’t Lucas.
It was his twisted imagination, fed by some ridiculous tradition.

That was it for me.

I jumped out of bed, grabbed my things, and walked out of the room.

In that cold hotel hallway, I made the quickest decision of my life:

My marriage was over before it even reached 24 hours.

The next morning, I told my mother, my sister, and — most importantly — myself:

I didn’t deserve a family that excused abuse as tradition.
I didn’t deserve a husband who wouldn’t defend me.
I didn’t deserve to feel fear on the night that should have been the happiest of my life.

I signed the annulment three weeks later.

And to this day, when someone asks me why, I simply say:

“Some traditions should die long before they ruin someone’s life.”