When I fulfilled my dream and bought a house for my husband and me, he declared on the very first day: «My mom, sister, and kids will live with us…

Dinners at her house turned into torture for me: she meticulously watched how I held my fork, how I sat at the table, corrected my speech if I misplaced an accent or used, in her opinion, an inappropriate word. «Don’t say ‘calls,’ Olivia, it’s ‘rings,'» she would say with a smile that chilled. «Educated people don’t say that.»

In the early years of marriage, I swallowed these jabs silently, afraid of upsetting Ethan, who adored his mother and turned a blind eye to her attitude toward me. Later, I learned to respond politely but firmly. It didn’t improve our relations, but at least it made my mother-in-law more cautious in her expressions.

Relations with Ethan’s sister, Rebecca, were no better. She was five years older than her brother, worked as a local journalist in a small town not far from the state capital, raising two children from different fathers. Both marriages ended in divorce, and Rebecca lived with the kids in a small two-bedroom apartment, constantly complaining about lack of money, household difficulties, and her unsettled personal life.

A strange feature: while complaining, she never did anything to change the situation. She didn’t look for a better job, didn’t try to collect child support from her ex-husbands, didn’t focus on raising the children, who grew up left to themselves. Instead, she regularly called Ethan with requests for financial help, which he couldn’t refuse—after all, his only sister. Her children, my nieces and nephews by marriage, also left much to be desired. Fifteen-year-old Tyler was a sullen teenager, inseparable from his tablet and headphones.

He barely responded to greetings, sat silently at the table staring at the screen, and seemed to exist in some parallel world. He had problems at school with grades and behavior, but Rebecca waved it off: «All boys are like that at his age.» Thirteen-year-old Lily was the complete opposite of her brother—noisy, flighty, she was always at the center of some drama.

Either quarreling with friends, falling in love with another classmate, or throwing tantrums over new clothes or gadgets that her mother couldn’t afford. Her relationship with her mother was strained—both had explosive tempers and didn’t know how to compromise. When Ethan’s family gathered—usually for holidays or birthdays—I felt out of place.

They spoke in their special language, peppering speech with family jokes and hints understandable only to them. They recalled stories from the past in which I hadn’t participated, discussed people I didn’t know. In those moments, Ethan seemed to become a different person—sharper, more mocking, detached.

I saw how he changed in his mother’s presence, becoming either overly deferential or boyishly mischievous, as if seeking her approval. Over the last year, we had seen his relatives only a few times. They lived in a small town three hours’ drive away, and the trip there was not easy—first by train, then by bus.

Ethan visited them more often, alone, explaining that it would be boring for me, and he needed to help his mother with the house—fix something, repair, chop wood for winter. I knew about the last year of his family’s life only from his words. His mother’s arthritis had worsened, she struggled with household chores.

There were some problems at school, apparently a conflict with the new principal. Rebecca’s hours at the newspaper were cut, money became very tight. Tyler had issues at school again—they even threatened to expel him for truancy and rude behavior.

I sympathized with their problems, but honestly, I was glad we lived far away and weren’t drawn into this whirl of troubles. Ethan and I had our own life, our own plans, our own dreams. And the main one was the house, our own house, where we could create a family unlike either his or mine.

A family where love, respect, and support would reign. And now, when the dream was almost realized, a strange premonition gnawed at me. Something was wrong.

Something was changing in Ethan, in our life, in our plans, and I couldn’t understand what exactly. The day before I received the keys to the house, something happened that made me seriously think. I returned from work earlier than usual—the last meeting was canceled—and found Ethan in the hallway with two large suitcases.

«Where are you going?» I asked, looking surprised at the suitcases. He flinched in surprise and quickly pushed the suitcases behind the closet. «Olivia! You’re home early.»

«The meeting was canceled,» I replied, not taking my eyes off the suitcases. «So where are you going?» «Ah, this…» he hesitated. «I need to go to Mom’s for a couple of days.

There’s a problem with the roof, leaking after rains. I want to help with the repair.» «And that’s why you need two huge suitcases?»

I couldn’t hide the skepticism in my voice. «You’ve never taken so many things when going to her before.» «Well, I don’t know how long the repair will take,» he shrugged, avoiding my gaze.

«Might have to stay a week or two. Took more clothes so I don’t have to wash every day.» His explanation sounded unconvincing, but I didn’t press.

Something told me he wouldn’t tell the truth anyway. «When are you leaving?» «Tomorrow morning,» he replied, visibly relaxing when he realized I wasn’t going to interrogate him. «Train at six AM.

You’ll still be asleep, I didn’t want to wake you.» «Okay,» I went into the kitchen, feeling anxiety building inside. «Want some tea?» That evening passed in a strange atmosphere.

We had dinner in silence, occasionally exchanging meaningless phrases. Ethan was thoughtful and distracted, answered inappropriately, often checked his phone. And I couldn’t shake the thought that he was hiding something.

Too many oddities had accumulated lately: mysterious phone conversations, sudden absences, irritability, and now these suitcases. After dinner, Ethan said he needed to finish an urgent project and shut himself in his room. I heard him talking to someone on the phone—quietly but emotionally.

I didn’t eavesdrop—I already felt like a paranoid. In the morning, when I woke up, Ethan was gone from the house. On the kitchen table was a note: «Left as planned.

Will call when I arrive. Kisses, E.» I ran my hand over the paper, where a faint trace of hastily written and erased words was visible. What was there originally? And why did he decide to erase it? The day was filled with errands: I received the keys to the house, entered it for the first time as the rightful owner, walked through all the rooms, making plans for the future.

In the evening, returning to our rented apartment, I found that Ethan hadn’t called. It was strange—usually he let me know when he arrived safely. I tried calling him myself, but the phone was off or out of service.

Seriously worried, I called his mother. Patricia answered not immediately, and when she did pick up, irritation was in her voice. «Hello? Hello, Patricia, it’s Olivia.

I wanted to know if Ethan arrived.» There was a pause. «Ethan?» her voice held genuine surprise.

«He was supposed to come?» My heart sank. «Yes, he left this morning. Said he was going to you to help with the roof repair.»..