Brandon proposed two months ago, and I said yes without hesitation. So when he invited me to his family’s beach house in South Carolina, I thought it was a chance to bond with his mother before the wedding. But from the moment we arrived, things felt off—separate bedrooms, subtle jabs, and endless requests from Janet, his pearl-clad mother who treated me more like hired help than a future daughter-in-law. I tried to brush it off, thinking maybe she was just old-fashioned. I was wrong.
By day four, the mask slipped. I overheard Janet and Brandon mocking me—laughing about how I failed her “feet test” and refused to clean her room. Then came the gut punch: “She’s the fifth one.” Turns out, I wasn’t just on vacation—I was being tested, like the women before me. A twisted ritual disguised as family bonding. My heart sank. I wasn’t just hurt. I was furious. This wasn’t love. It was manipulation wrapped in charm and tradition.
I didn’t confront them. I performed my own exit. I baked Janet’s favorite muffins with extra lemon, labeled her shoes with sticky notes, and left a lipstick message on her mirror: “Thanks for the free test. I hope you both pass the next one—with each other.” I placed my engagement ring between her jars of pickles and walked out without a word. The beach house, once a dream, had become a stage for a cruel audition. I was done playing.
On the flight home, I didn’t cry. I blocked Brandon, deleted every photo, and felt the kind of peace that only comes after reclaiming your dignity. I wasn’t someone’s fifth attempt. I was Kiara—smart, loyal, and finally done pretending that someone else’s version of love was good enough for me. Let them keep their pickles and their tests. I passed my own.
