My husband had to work late so I went alone to drop off some cookies for his mom, Sharon.
When I got there, my FIL Frank wasn’t home, and Sharon didn’t come to the door.
I texted Frank and he replied “I’m out with the guys.
Sharon’s resting. You can head home.” Weird, because she never just “rests” when we’re supposed to visit. but then I heard this faint tapping sound upstairs.
I followed the sound to the attic door (always locked, Frank’s “private space”). but this time the key was in the lock. my heart was racing.
I opened it and just… froze. sharon was sitting in this dusty old chair, looking pale and embarrassed.
I was like “Sharon?? what’s going on?? why are you up here??” I rushed over to help her stand and that’s when she whispered “He said no one would believe me. That if I ever told anyone, he’d make it look like I lost my mind again.”
I froze. Her voice was brittle, like dry leaves cracking underfoot. She looked so small in that dusty attic chair, swallowed by layers of blankets that smelled of old wood and fear.
“Sharon… what are you talking about?” I knelt beside her. “Did Frank—did he lock you up here?”
She looked away, ashamed. “He says I get confused. That I wander. That I… forget.”
She touched her temple. “But I don’t forget. I remember everything.”
I helped her to her feet. Her knees buckled a little, so I wrapped an arm around her waist, steadying her. She clutched my hand like it was the only real thing left.
We were halfway to the attic stairs when we heard it.
The front door creaked open.
Sharon stiffened. Her grip tightened.
Then came the voice.
“Honey? You’re still here?”
Frank.
I looked at Sharon—her face drained of color.
“He doesn’t know you’re up here?” I asked.
She shook her head. Whispered, “He thinks you left. He always checks.”
My pulse roared in my ears. I reached into my pocket for my phone—thank God I hadn’t left it in the car. One press. Recording. Just in case.
“Shhh,” I mouthed, gently guiding her to sit back down. “Stay quiet.”
I crept halfway down the attic stairs and peeked through the cracked door.
Frank was standing in the hallway, whistling. A duffel bag in one hand. He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a beer. Totally relaxed. Like nothing was wrong.
Then I saw it. He walked past the wall of family photos…
and one was missing. The photo of Sharon at their anniversary party last year.
He’d taken it down.
I turned and looked at her again—this woman he’d silenced and hidden.
No more.
I pulled the attic door all the way open.
“Frank,” I said, loud and clear. “We need to talk.”
The bottle slipped from his hand.
Glass shattered.
And the truth began.