I visited my in-laws alone last weekend, and I seriously wish I hadn’t. What I found when I got there, well, it was like something straight out of a horror story.
It all started when Bryce, my husband, got stuck at work. We were supposed to visit his parents together, but at the last minute, he called me and said he wouldn’t make it.
Now, I’ve always had a good relationship with his mom, Sharon. She’s the kind of woman who sends handwritten cards for no reason and insists on giving you the last slice of pie, even if she made it for herself. So, I figured I’d go ahead and drop by anyway to surprise her with some cookies I baked the night before.
I thought it’d be a nice gesture: just pop in, chat for a bit, and leave. But when I pulled up to their house, something felt off. There were no lights on, and the front door, which Sharon usually swings open with a wide smile, remained closed. Still, I shrugged it off. Maybe Frank, my father-in-law, had taken her out for a late lunch.
I knocked and waited. No answer. After a minute, I let myself in, balancing the plate of cookies in one hand while calling out, “Sharon? It’s me, Ruth! I brought something for you!”
