I’m 31, and I just returned from what was supposed to be a relaxing beach trip. Instead, I found myself on a porch, suitcase in hand, salt in the air, questioning the person I’d agreed to marry.
I met Brandon a year ago at a friend’s engagement party. Polished, steady, the kind of man who opens doors and calls you “darlin’” with effortless charm. Our connection was instant: dinners turned into weekends, weekends into “I love yous.” Two months ago, he proposed during a quiet hike outside Asheville. I said yes, tears streaming, and never questioned the little things—like chipped nails or sweat on my back.
We began planning our future, balancing his ideas with mine, until he suggested a week at his family’s beach house in South Carolina. “Mom really wants you there,” he said casually.
I had met Janet before—pearls at brunch, compliments that felt more like evaluations. But maybe, I thought, a week at the beach could soften her sharp edges.
The first morning, she asked me to tidy her room. The next, she requested a cocktail, sunscreen application, and a foot rub. By the fourth day, her subtle criticisms had turned sharp, and Brandon’s silence only added weight. It felt like a test, one I hadn’t signed up for.
Later, I discovered why. Old Instagram posts revealed a pattern: previous fiancées, all subjected to the same “beach week evaluation,” who vanished after their trips. I realized I wasn’t special—I was the next in line.
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