“And where’s the woman Dad keeps in our shed?!”
Thanksgiving dinner had started with good vibes. The atmosphere was filled with laughter and the delicious aroma of roasted turkey filled the house. My daughter, Mia, however, seemed unusually restless. She kept glancing toward the window, her fingers nervously drumming against the table. I brushed it off as excitement. She was a curious child, after all.
We had just settled around the table, conversing and exchanging food, when Mia abruptly got up from her chair. Her words echoed, drowning out the clinking of cutlery and laughing. “And where’s the woman Dad keeps in our shed?!”
The room went quiet. My hand froze midair while clutching the cutting knife. My husband, Greg, turned as white as the mashed potatoes, his jaw slack.
“What are you talking about, Mia?” I asked, my heart pounding as I set down the knife.
“She’s real!” Mia insisted, pointing toward the backyard. “Dad goes to see her when you’re not home. I saw him talking to her!”
The weight of her words fell heavily on the table, like a thundercloud brooding over a brilliant sunny day. My parents, Greg’s parents, and everyone else fixed their eyes on Greg. He stammered for words, his face filled with dread and humiliation.
“Mia,” he stammered, “it’s not what you think it is… wait, I… please. You must have misunderstood..”
But Mia was adamant. She jumped off her chair and grabbed my hand. “Come on, Mom. Let’s go to the shed and see with your own eyes. I swear with God, she’s there!”
I followed expecting to see anyone. My stomach churned with dread. Greg stumbled after us, mumbling excuses, but I ignored him. The family trailed behind, curiosity pulling them like magnets.
When we reached the shed, Mia pointed to the door. “She’s in there. I saw Dad talking to her yesterday.”
I took a deep breath before opening the door. What I discovered was unexpected—but still disturbing.
Inside the shed, a solitary lamp illuminated a life-size mannequin clothed in an ancient bridal gown. The look was unnerving, with glassy eyes staring blankly ahead. A box beside it had picture albums and a few items that I hadn’t seen in many years.
I turned to Greg, my voice trembling. “What is this?”
He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “It’s… my ex-fiancée’s stuff.”
“Your ex-fiancée?” I echoed, disbelief coating my words.
“She passed away years ago before I met you,” he admitted, his voice heavy with emotion. “I kept some of her belongings for closure, but I wasn’t sure how to tell you. “I tried to get rid of it, but couldn’t.”
The family stood surprised and silent, the tension in the air unmistakable
“What have you been sneaking out here for? Relive memories?” I asked, anger and sadness bubbling up inside me.
Greg nodded, tears brimming in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hide it. I just didn’t want you to think I was holding onto her instead of moving forward with you.”
The truth hurt me. I wasn’t sure what hurt more: the secret itself or the fact that he hadn’t trusted me enough to share it.
I turned to Mia, who looked confused. “Sweetheart, thank you for telling me,” I said softly, kneeling to her level. “But this isn’t a person. It’s just something Daddy was keeping because it made him feel better.”
Greg tried to explain himself to the rest of the family, but the celebratory spirit vanished. Dinner seemed empty, and I spent the rest of the evening in a fog.
Later that night, when everyone had departed, Greg and I had a lengthy, difficult discussion. I told him I couldn’t be with someone who kept stuff like this from me, no matter what the reason. It wasn’t just about the mannequin; it was about trust.
By the end of the weekend, Greg had moved out. Thanksgiving wasn’t the same after that, but Mia and I eventually developed new traditions together.
Looking back, I know that family secrets, no matter how well-intentioned, may emerge unexpectedly. When they do, they change everything.
Thanks for reading.
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