When my son Caleb married Nora, I believed my prayers had been answered. She was graceful, kind, and gentle, the sort of woman who made every room brighter simply by entering it. At their wedding, the neighbors whispered that Caleb had chosen perfectly, and I nodded, convinced that life had given him the happiness he deserved.

But a week after the wedding, I began to notice something strange. Each morning, before the first light touched the curtains, Nora stripped the bed completely bare. Sheets, blankets, pillowcases, everything went into the wash. Sometimes she did it again before evening, as if the day itself had not been clean enough.

At first, I thought it was just her way of keeping things tidy. Newlyweds can be particular. But after days of watching her repeat the same ritual, unease began to settle in my chest.

One afternoon, while she folded fresh linen, I asked softly, “Nora, why do you wash the bedding so often? It must be exhausting to keep this up every single day.”

She smiled with that calm politeness she always carried. “It’s just dust, Mom,” she said. “I sleep better when everything is fresh.”

Her answer should have satisfied me. Yet something in her voice, a careful tremor under the sweetness, left me restless.

A few mornings later, curiosity overcame me. I told her I was going to the market early. After closing the gate loudly, I waited, then slipped quietly back inside. The kettle whistled downstairs. Nora was humming softly as she cooked breakfast. I climbed the stairs with slow, uncertain steps.

The moment I opened the bedroom door, a faint metallic scent filled the air. My stomach tightened. I approached the bed and lifted the corner of the sheet.

Beneath it, the mattress was marked with dark stains, not fresh red, but deep brown, the color of dried blood. My breath caught in my throat. I opened the bedside drawer and found bandages, antiseptic bottles, and a shirt stiff with old stains. My hands trembled so violently that I nearly dropped them.

I hurried downstairs, barely able to speak. Nora turned, startled by my expression. I took her hand and led her upstairs. “Please,” I whispered, “tell me what this means.”

For a moment she stood motionless, her eyes wide and filled with terror. Then her face crumpled, and tears began to fall.

“Caleb didn’t want you to know,” she said through sobs. “The doctors say his leukemia is in the final stage. He bleeds at night. I wash the sheets so you won’t see. He wanted you to think everything was fine.”

Her words struck me like a blow. I sat down on the edge of the bed, unable to move. “He knew,” I murmured, “and he kept smiling through it all.”

Nora knelt beside me. “He didn’t want pity. We married because he wanted to live what little time was left. I promised to keep his dignity. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

I reached for her and drew her close. “You are not alone anymore,” I said quietly. “We will face this together.”

That night, I did not sleep. The truth pulsed behind my eyes like a wound that would not close. But with the dawn came a strange calm. I went to the store and bought more sheets, detergent, and a new basin.

When I returned, Nora was already in the yard, hanging laundry on the line. Without speaking, I joined her. We worked side by side, our hands raw from the cold water and soap, bound by a shared pain that words could not ease.

The months that followed were the hardest of my life. Caleb’s strength faded little by little. Some mornings he could barely lift his head, yet he still smiled when he saw us together. Nora never left his side. She fed him, whispered stories to him, and held his hand through each long night.

One gray morning, before the sun rose, the house fell silent. Caleb’s breathing slowed until it disappeared entirely. Nora sat with him, her hand on his chest, whispering I love you again and again until there was no answer.

We buried him beneath the old elm tree behind St. Vincent’s Chapel. The air smelled of damp earth and salt from the sea. My heart felt hollow, but Nora stood beside me with quiet strength, her face wet with tears, her shoulders straight.

After the funeral, she did not return to her parents. She stayed. Together we kept Caleb’s small café by the harbor alive. She learned every regular’s name, laughed with the children who came for pastries, and filled the place with warmth again.

People sometimes ask why my daughter-in-law still lives with me. I always smile and tell them the truth.

“She is not only my son’s wife,” I say. “She is my daughter. And this house will always be her home.”