You are thirty-two years old when your husband leaves you alone with his mother and tells you it is only for three days.
He says it like a favor, like trust, like family finally opening the last locked door and letting you stand inside the circle instead of on its chalky edge. He presses your hands between his, looks into your eyes, and says you are the only one they can count on. But even then, before the horror shows its face, something in his voice feels less like love and more like assignment.
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