The moment I saw our front door ajar and trash strewn across the porch, I knew something was terribly wrong. But nothing could have prepared me for the chaos waiting inside or the wild turn of events that followed.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly out the window as the soft hum of the city filled the room. My husband, Ethan, was in the other room, packing our suitcases for our upcoming vacation, but my mind was elsewhere, thinking about how different our lives were compared to his brother, Stan.
Ethan and I had built everything from scratch. We weren’t rich, but we had a modest, cozy home filled with love and memories—a sanctuary we cherished. Ethan came from a wealthy family, but he had always been determined to make his own way, turning down his father, Howard, when he offered him a cushy position in the family business.
Stan, on the other hand, lived off their father’s wealth. He never really worked, except for occasionally showing up at their father’s company, where he enjoyed the perks of being the boss’s son. Fancy cars, designer clothes, wild parties—Stan loved the high life and took everything for granted.
I sighed and shook off those thoughts as Ethan poked his head into the room. “You ready?” he asked, zipping up the last suitcase.
“Almost,” I replied with a smile. “It’ll be nice to get away for a while.”
We were headed out for a week-long vacation—the first real break we’d had in years. And though I had my reservations about leaving our house in Stan’s care, Ethan had assured me it would be fine. “It’s just a week. What could go wrong?” he’d said.
But when we pulled into our driveway seven days later, my stomach sank.
The front door was slightly open, and the porch was littered with cans, bottles, and trash. My heart raced as I gripped Ethan’s arm. “What happened?”
Ethan’s face darkened. Without a word, he pushed the door open, and we stepped inside. The stench hit us first—a sour mix of beer, smoke, and something burnt. The living room was in shambles: furniture overturned, broken glass everywhere, and stains on the walls from food that had been thrown or smeared.
We wandered into the kitchen, and that’s when we saw the source of the burnt smell—a charred stove and melted cabinets. Something had exploded.
“Ethan, this is insane!” I gasped, my voice shaking.
Ethan ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “Stan was supposed to watch the house, not throw a frat party!” he fumed.
I pulled out my phone, dialing Stan’s number. It went straight to voicemail. Again and again, I called, but there was no answer. Ethan, now furious, started shouting, “Stan! Pick up your damn phone!”
Frustration and panic coursed through me as I dialed Ethan’s mother, Celeste. She picked up on the second ring. “Aubrey, darling! How was your trip?”
“Celeste,” I interrupted, “do you know where Stan is? Our house is destroyed!”
There was a pause on the other end, followed by an almost unnervingly calm response. “Oh, you don’t know?” Celeste said. “First, congrats on the new house. And second, Stan won’t be available for a while.”
“Unavailable?” I repeated, confused. “What do you mean?”
Leave a Reply