Chapter 1: The Arrival

In the third month of my pregnancy, my husband's grandmother barreled into our lives, ready to take command. The whole neighborhood in Maple Heights seemed to feel the shift in the air when she arrived—thick and heavy, like the world before a thunderstorm.

She killed Max—the dog I’d raised since he could fit in my palm—and turned him into stew, all to make a point. The betrayal hit me harder than any morning sickness. The smell of simmering meat drifted through the house, sharp and greasy, coiling in my nostrils and making my stomach clench.

At dinner, she leaned forward and boasted, her voice loud enough to rattle the salt shaker:

"You know, mutt meat’s extra tender when you feed ‘em the good stuff. Bet you never tasted anything like it." Her accent was thick with pride, practically daring someone to call her out. My fork slipped from my fingers, clattering against the plate. The noise jolted everyone, and for a moment, all eyes darted around the table. I caught a glimpse of Marcus’s knuckles whitening around his glass.

After the meal, she made me kneel and bow to the turtle she’d kept for forty years, demanding I recognize it as my god-grandmother. The whole scene felt like some weird cult initiation—no incense, just the hum of the fridge, sticky notes on the microwave, and the old lady muttering about "respecting your elders, even if they have shells." I scanned the kitchen for an escape route, half-expecting her to start chanting.

I did what she asked, my knees aching on the cold tile, face blank as I’d learned to keep it in a family that hid every bruise. But she didn’t realize—getting a god-grandmother is easy; getting rid of one in Maple Heights is another story. Here, grudges stick around longer than the winter snow.