A week at my fiancé Brandon’s family beach house was supposed to bring us closer. Instead, it revealed a secret test I never knew I was taking.
From the moment we arrived, his mom, Janet, treated me like free help — asking me to tidy her room, fetch her drinks, even rub her feet. When I refused, Brandon scolded me for being “rude.”
One night, I overheard them talking. Janet laughed, saying, “She didn’t pass the feet test. She’s the fifth one.”
Fifth one? My heart sank.
I searched Brandon’s old Instagram posts and found photos of four other women at the same beach house, each smiling with Janet — all before me. I wasn’t on vacation. I was the latest contestant in some twisted family ritual.
The next morning, while they were out, I packed my bags. Before leaving, I slipped my engagement ring into Janet’s pickle jar and wrote a message on the bathroom mirror:
“Thanks for the test. I hope you both pass the next one — with each other.”
As my rideshare pulled away, I blocked Brandon and his mom. For the first time in weeks, I could breathe.
I wasn’t the fifth one anymore. I was free.
