When my mom said no one from Jeff’s family had arrived, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. It was our wedding day. Nothing was supposed to go wrong.
But someone had gone out of their way to make sure it did.
I met Jeff three years ago at my best friend’s housewarming party. I wasn’t even planning to go that night because I had a mountain of work files to review.
But Tara insisted, saying there was someone I “absolutely had to meet.”
“He’s smart, kind, and actually listens when you talk,” she’d said over the phone. “Plus, he brings good wine to parties instead of cheap beer.
That’s husband material right there.”
I laughed it off, but went anyway.
Jeff was standing by the bookshelf when I arrived, examining Tara’s collection of true crime novels.
“Are you also into stories about terrible people doing terrible things?” I asked, gesturing toward the books.
He laughed. “I prefer to think of them as cautionary tales about what happens when in-laws go too far.”
Oh, the irony of that statement. If only we’d known.
Our first date turned into a second, then a third.
By our sixth month together, we were inseparable.
Jeff was everything I’d been looking for. We shared the same values about family, our future, and even how we loaded the dishwasher (a surprisingly contentious topic with previous boyfriends).
“I think you might be it for me,” he told me one night as we sat on his balcony, watching the sunset.
“I think you might be right,” I replied, and meant it with every fiber of my being.
When the time came to meet each other’s families, mine adored Jeff immediately. My dad, usually reserved with my boyfriends, invited him to watch football in his sacred den.
Meanwhile, my mother started sending him birthday cards with money tucked inside.
It was something she’d never done for any other boyfriend.
Then came the day to meet Jeff’s family.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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