My son brought his fiancée to Thanksgiving, and when I saw the texts on her phone…

I stood at my kitchen counter, hands covered in flour from the pie crust I was rolling, when I noticed Rachel’s smile didn’t reach her eyes again. It was Thanksgiving morning, and our Connecticut home smelled like roasted turkey and cinnamon.

Rachel had arrived with my son, Michael, an hour earlier, and she’d been helping me prep food while he watched football with his father in the living room. She was beautiful in a cream cashmere sweater, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.

Everything about her looked perfect. Too perfect.

“How’s the stuffing coming?” I asked, trying to catch her gaze.

“Almost done, Patricia.” She kept her eyes on the cutting board, chopping celery with mechanical precision.

Chop, chop, chop. The rhythm never varied.

“You can call me mom, sweetheart. You’re going to be family in 3 months.” She glanced up then, and for a split second, I saw something flicker across her face—fear—but it vanished so quickly I wondered if I’d imagined it.

“Of course, mom.” The word sounded forced, rehearsed.

Michael appeared in the doorway, still holding his beer.

“How are my favorite women doing?” Rachel’s shoulders tensed. I noticed because my hands stilled on the rolling pin.

“We’re great, honey,” I said.

“Rachel’s been a tremendous help.” “That’s my girl.” Michael crossed the kitchen and put his arm around Rachel’s waist, his hands spread across her hip, fingers pressing into the soft cashmere.

She didn’t lean into him the way she had when they’d first started dating 18 months ago. Instead, she stood rigid, smile fixed in place.

“Michael, your father needs another beer,” I lied.

“Can’t Rachel get it?” He didn’t remove his hand.

“I need her help with the turkey.” My voice came out sharper than intended.

He studied me for a moment, then kissed the top of Rachel’s head and left. The moment he disappeared, Rachel’s shoulders dropped.

She exhaled long and slow.

“Are you all right, dear?” “Fine. Just tired. Work’s been crazy.” She resumed chopping, faster now.

I wanted to press, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the way her hand trembled slightly.

Maybe it was the fact that she’d lost weight since summer, her collarbones now prominent beneath her sweater. Or maybe it was because I’d been a teacher for 37 years and I’d learned to recognize when something was wrong, even when no one was talking.

The doorbell rang. Michael’s voice boomed from the living room.

“I’ll get it!” Rachel’s phone, sitting on the counter next to the celery, lit up with a notification.

Then another, and another. The screen filled with messages, all from M.

“Where are you?” “I don’t see you in the kitchen anymore.” “Answer me, Rachel.” “Don’t ignore me.” My blood ran cold.

Rachel lunged for her phone, but I’d already seen enough. Her face had gone pale.

“I should check on Michael,” she mumbled, clutching the phone to her chest.

“It was my sister,” I said loudly, stopping her at the door.

“She’s bringing the pies.” Rachel nodded, but her hands shook as she typed a response on her phone.

I glimpsed the beginning of her message: “I’m here in the kitchen with your mom. I promise I…” She turned the screen away, but the damage was done.

My son was texting his fiancée from one room away, tracking her location within our house, and she was apologizing for it. I picked up my wine glass and drank deeply, mind racing.

When had this started? How had I missed it?

My sister Nancy bustled in, arms full of pie boxes, breaking the tension.

“Happy Thanksgiving! Oh Rachel, you look gorgeous as always.” She air-kissed Rachel’s cheeks, then whispered to me as she sat down the pies.

“Is everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “Later,” I mouthed.

Dinner was agony. Michael sat at the head of the table, playing the perfect host.

He carved the turkey with practiced precision, made jokes that had everyone laughing, and complimented my cooking. But I watched Rachel.

I’d never really watched her before. Not like this.

“May I?” she asked Michael before reaching for the wine bottle.

“Of course, honey. Just one glass though. Remember you said you wanted to lose a few pounds before the wedding.” Rachel’s face flushed. She was already thin. Too thin.

“You mentioned you were looking at venues last week,” Nancy said brightly.

“How’s that going?” “We found a beautiful place in Greenwich,” Michael answered before Rachel could speak.

“Estate wedding, very elegant. Rachel wanted something smaller, but I convinced her that we need to make a statement. After all, the partners from my firm will be there.”

“What did you want, Rachel?” I asked quietly.

She glanced at Michael, then at her plate.

“Michael’s right. The Greenwich estate is beautiful.” “But what did you want originally?”

“Mom, don’t grill her,” Michael said, laughing.

But his eyes weren’t laughing.

“Rachel and I make decisions together. That’s what marriage is about.” Tom, my husband, changed the subject to football.

I barely heard the conversation. Under the table, my hands clenched into fists.

After dinner, I asked Rachel to help me with dishes. Michael started to stand.

“Just us girls,” I said firmly.

“Tom and Nancy can keep you company.”

In the kitchen, I ran hot water and squirted soap into the sink. Rachel picked up a dish towel, silent.

“How long has he been texting you like that?” I asked.

Her hands froze on the towel.

“I don’t know what you mean, Rachel.”

I turned off the water and faced her.

“I saw the messages. ‘Where are you? Answer me.’ You were 10 feet away from him.”

“He just worries.” “That’s not worry. That’s control.”

She shook her head, backing away.

“You don’t understand. Michael loves me. He just likes to know where I am. It’s sweet. Really, he cares.”

“Sweet?” I heard my voice rising and forced it down.

“Sweetheart, I was married to an abuser once. Before Tom. I was 19 and thought love meant someone wanting to know where I was every second. It took me 3 years to leave, and by then I’d lost my friends, my job, my sense of self.”

Rachel stared at me, eyes wide.

“Michael isn’t… he would never…” “Where are your friends, Rachel? The ones you used to post about on social media?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

“When’s the last time you saw them?”

“They… they were bad influences. Michael helped me see that.” My heart shattered. I’d heard those words before from my own mouth, decades ago.

“And your job? Last Christmas, you were up for a promotion. Director of marketing, you said.”

“I turned it down. The hours would have been too demanding. Michael and I want to start a family soon.”

“And did you want to turn it down?” Silence.

“Rachel, look at me.” I stepped closer. Gentle now.