The Night That Changed My Marriage
On our very first night as a married couple, my father-in-law introduced us to a tradition they called “The Spirit of the Male Child” and insisted that he sleep in the room with us
Around three in the morning, I felt repeated touches on my back.
When I turned around… I nearly fainted.
The night that was supposed to be filled with romance and love became a nightmare straight out of a TV drama.
As my husband Lucas and I entered the bedroom, the door suddenly burst open as if it had exploded.
There stood his father—Mr. Arnoldo—a quiet, serious man, holding a pillow and a blanket.
“I’ll be sleeping with you tonight,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
My eyes widened.
“Here? In this bed?” I asked, hoping it was just a joke.
But Lucas only gave an awkward smile, clearly embarrassed.
“My love, it’s a family tradition,” he explained.
“On the wedding night, a ‘fortunate man’ sleeps with the newlyweds to ensure the birth of a male child.”
A strange pain twisted in my stomach.
I wanted to refuse.
I wanted to throw both of them out.
But the words I had heard all week echoed in my mind:
“Be polite. It’s part of the family tradition…”
I took a deep breath and lay down at the very edge of the bed, as far away from them as possible.
The night felt endless.
I barely slept—my body was filled with dread.
And then it started…
First, a gentle touch on my back.
Then, something like a pinch.
And finally, a sensation slowly creeping from my waist down to my thigh, like fingers brushing against my skin.
My heart raced.
“This isn’t normal.”
Around three in the morning, I was shaking.
When I felt that sensation climbing along the side of my body again, I lost control.
I turned suddenly—fast, terrified—and then…
Oh God.
It felt like the blood drained from my body.
What I saw…
was not what I expected.
It was worse.
Mr. Arnoldo was sitting on the bed, eyes closed, breathing deeply…
but he wasn’t looking at me.
I looked behind me.
Lucas was standing there, seemingly asleep but shifting slightly.
His breathing was directed toward my feet, moving subtly as he changed position.
But that still didn’t explain everything.
When I looked back at my father-in-law, I finally understood what was truly terrifying.
He was holding a rosary.
He was crying.
“I saw it… I saw the spirit…” he whispered.
“He came… he came for the blessing… he passed through you… I felt it.”
And that was when I understood:
He wasn’t the one touching me.
It wasn’t Lucas.
It was my father-in-law’s imagination—fueled by a twisted tradition.
That was my breaking point.
I stood up, gathered my belongings, and left the room.
In the cold hotel hallway, I made the fastest decision of my life:
My marriage was over—before it even reached twenty-four hours.
The next day, I told my mother, my sister, and most importantly, myself:
I do not deserve a family that protects abuse in the name of tradition.
I do not deserve a husband who will not defend me.
I should not have been afraid on what was supposed to be the happiest night of my life.
Three weeks later, I signed the annulment papers.
And to this day, when people ask me why, I give a simple answer:
“Some traditions deserve to die before they destroy someone’s life.”