When I first opened the door to the woman who introduced herself as my husband’s cousin, I had no idea how much that moment would alter everything I thought I
When I first opened the door to the woman who introduced herself as my husband’s cousin, I had no idea how much that moment would alter everything I thought I knew about my marriage. Her name was Laura, and she carried a sleepy-looking little boy in her arms. His face was pressed against her shoulder, one small hand gripping the collar of her sweater.
The child couldn’t have been more than four. Behind her sat an old silver sedan stuffed with bags and boxes. “Sarah?” she asked softly.
“I’m Laura—William’s cousin from Portland. We spoke on the phone.”
I forced a polite smile. “Of course.
Come in. You must be exhausted.”
At the time, her arrival seemed perfectly reasonable. William had told me a week earlier that his cousin was going through a rough patch—her husband had left, she’d fallen behind on rent, and she needed a place to stay temporarily until she got back on her feet.
“Just a couple of weeks,” he’d said, running a hand through his hair. “She’s family, Sarah. She’s got no one else right now.”
I remember hesitating.
“We don’t exactly have room for extra guests. You know how small this house is.”
“It’s just until she sorts things out,” he’d insisted. “Please.
It’s the right thing to do.”
William had always been the generous type, the kind of man who helped strangers change tires and mowed our elderly neighbor’s lawn without being asked. I admired that about him—or at least I thought I did. So I agreed.
And that’s how Laura and her little boy, Tommy, became our temporary houseguests. At first, it wasn’t too bad. Laura seemed polite, maybe a bit withdrawn, but I chalked that up to her situation.
She spent most of her time caring for Tommy, who was shy and quiet, content to sit on the living room rug, stacking blocks while Laura applied for jobs online. She thanked me constantly—for meals, for laundry detergent, for letting her stay. “You have no idea how much this means to me,” she told me one evening as we washed dishes together.
“You’re saving us.”
I smiled and told her it was no trouble. But even in that first week, something felt… off. For one thing, she and William seemed unusually familiar.
I caught them exchanging looks during dinner—quick, subtle glances that lingered just a moment too long. When I’d enter a room, they’d sometimes stop talking mid-sentence. I brushed it off as my imagination.
After all, they were family. But then there were the odd comments. One afternoon, as I helped Tommy find his toy car under the couch, Laura laughed and said, “He has William’s eyes, don’t you think?”
I froze.
“What?”
She blinked, then gave a nervous little chuckle. “Oh, sorry—I meant his uncle’s side of the family. They all have that same color.”
It sounded innocent enough, but something about the way she said it made the hair on my neck stand up.
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