The day before our wedding, my fiancé brought me to his mom’s house for “a nice family dinner.” She switched to Italian to insult me right in front of my face—then my fiancé joined in and laughed. Before walking out, I revealed the one thing they never expected: I understood every word.

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Giulia kept hold of my hand a second longer than necessary, like she needed something solid to confirm what she’d just heard was real. Her expression barely shifted—she was too disciplined for that—but her eyes hardened slightly, the subtle snap of a lock turning in place.

Matteo cleared his throat. “Sofia—” he started, my name in Italian slipping out instinctively.

I gently withdrew my hand.

“We should go,” I replied in Italian, my tone steady. Then, switching to English, I added, “It’s late.”

Out in the driveway, the air was sharp and cold. Matteo stood beside his car, hands braced on his hips, staring down at the pavement as if it might offer an explanation.

“You… you understood everything?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Every word.”

Color rose to his face. “It was a joke. My mom says stupid things.

You know what she’s like.”

I let the silence stretch for a moment. “I heard her say I wasn’t ‘your level.’ And I heard you laugh.”

He parted his lips, then shut them again. “I didn’t mean—”

“What did you mean?” I asked evenly.

My calm seemed to frustrate him more than anger would have. “Because it sounded like agreement.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated.

She’s intense. If I challenge her, she makes everything miserable. I was just trying to keep the peace before the wedding.”
“The peace for who?”

He looked up, almost offended.

“For everyone.”

I nodded. “That’s the issue, Matteo. ‘Everyone’ didn’t include me.”

The drive back felt unfamiliar, like we’d stepped into a room neither of us had seen before.

At my apartment, he lingered in the doorway as though unsure whether he belonged inside.
“Sofia,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow is huge. Don’t let my mom’s mouth ruin it.”

I placed my keys down with care.

“Your mother’s words didn’t ruin it,” I replied. “Your reaction did.”

He blinked.

“I can handle someone who dislikes me,” I continued. “I can’t handle a partner who laughs at cruelty and expects me to swallow it so things stay ‘easy.’”

I studied him—the way he minimized my hurt, the way he wanted my patience without offering courage in return.

“Then it should be simple to fix,” I said softly.

“Fix what?”

“Tomorrow, if your mother says anything about me being beneath your family, you correct her immediately.

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