When my husband opened it, his mother was standing there — drunk, barely on her feet, slurring her words, her eyes unfocused.

She mumbled something incoherent, walked past us, and without saying a word, lay down right on our bed, among the rose petals, and immediately fell asleep.

I stood there in shock. My husband tried to wake her, shook her gently by the shoulder, but she didn’t respond.

— Maybe you could sleep in the next room; there’s a little sofa there, — he said awkwardly, glancing at me. — I’ll stay with Mom, in case she feels sick…

— This isn’t how I imagined our wedding night, — I whispered.

— I know, I’m sorry… but she’s my mother.