We were supposed to have a quiet weekend in the country—just the two of us, before the baby arrived. He said he wanted to show me where he grew up, where he “became the man I fell in love with.” It sounded perfect.
And at first, it was.
In the pasture, he pulled me close, kissed my cheek, and smiled as the cows grazed nearby. For a moment, I thought, this is it—this is everything. But something about the way he looked at me felt distant. Like his thoughts were elsewhere.
When I asked him what his favorite place on the farm was, he said it was a spot where he could forget everything and just be himself. His voice was calm, but there was something guarded in it—like he wasn’t telling me the whole story.
Still, I tried to focus on the good. The baby, our future, the quiet joy of building a life together.
But as we drove up the long gravel driveway, unease crept in. The house was grander than I expected, and there were a lot more people than I’d been told to expect. Music played, laughter echoed, and smoke from the barbecue filled the air.
He squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s just a small family gathering. Everyone’s excited to meet you.”
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