My mom had a new boyfriend, Aaron. I was happy for her—but I’d never met him. That changed the day I rang her doorbell.
When I saw him, my heart froze. I’d seen him before—screaming at a woman in a parking lot. Dangerous. And now he was in my mom’s home.
Dinner started normal, but his control and anger slipped through: sudden warnings over spilled wine, judgmental stares, probing questions. My mom didn’t notice, glowing with happiness—but I knew something was wrong.
The next day, I got threatening messages. Aaron was watching.
Two weeks later, my mom called, voice shaking. She revealed his jealousy, silent treatments, and controlling behavior. I called the police—and that night, Aaron showed up.
Red and blue lights flashed. Officers confronted him, and he was forced to leave, no contact allowed.
Six months later, my mom is healing, smiling, and reclaiming her life. “You saved me,” she whispered. I shook my head. “No, Mom. You saved yourself. I just turned on the light.”
