store-bought pie crust mix.
I stared at it, confused. The family had gone on and on about how everything was made from scratch. Her mom had even described “kneading the dough by hand” as her secret touch.
The next day, I casually brought it up, joking, “So, what’s the secret to your crust?” Her mom froze, her smile tightening. “Family recipe,” she said quickly.
Her brother smirked, then muttered under his breath, “Yeah, if you call aisle five ‘family.’”
The room went silent. Her mom shot him a sharp look. My fiancée grabbed my arm, dragging me to another room. “Don’t. Bring. It. Up,” she hissed.
I thought it was just about saving face—until later that night, when I overheard her mom whispering on the phone: “He saw it. Do you think he suspects the rest?
The rest of what?
