They Said It Was A Gift—But What I Found In My Living Room Was A Trap

I used to believe milestones softened people. When Mark got his promotion, I believed it even more. We cried on the kitchen floor, danced barefoot with sticky palms, called everyone who’d ever rooted for us. His parents sent Merlot and a card with embossed doves. Then Bashir called me.

“You supported him through it all,” he said, voice warm enough to melt granite. “This is your moment, too. I booked you a weekend at Serenity Springs. Go. Let us spoil you.”

It was unlike him. In five years of marriage, Mark’s parents had treated me like a guest in a house they never intended me to own. Polite. Distant. Measuring. But Mark squeezed my shoulders and said, “Let them do something nice. Just this once.”

So I packed a bag, kissed him goodbye, and merged onto the freeway as the sun burned off the morning fog.

Forty-five minutes later, my phone vibrated so hard it nearly launched from the cup holder. Mrs. Dorsey—our retired neighbor with binoculars for eyes and a heart of gold—was screaming.

“TURN AROUND! GO BACK! THEY’RE IN YOUR HOUSE! IT’S A SET-UP!”

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