You didn’t particularly enjoy visiting your fiancée Laura’s family, but you couldn’t deny the appeal of their house. The sprawling mansion, nestled on acres of private property with its own lake and mountain, felt like the perfect place to someday raise a family.

And then there was Hunter, Laura’s father—a wise, jovial man who reminded you of Santa Claus, if Santa traded his workshop for a comfortable recliner and a love of fishing. He had a warm presence, the kind of father figure you’d always wished for,

But the house and Hunter weren’t the problem.

The problem was Sweetie.

Yes, that was her actual name. And while it might have once suited a younger, more self-aware version of her, the Sweetie you knew was anything but. She was exhausting—a textbook pick me who seemed determined to remind everyone that she was still hot, despite the obvious passage of time. Last year, she’d spent half your visit comparing herself to Laura, her own daughter.

“Oh, Laura’s cute,” she’d said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “but I was curvier at her age. It’s all genetics, you know.” She’d smirked, smoothing a hand over her surgically enhanced figure as if daring someone to disagree.

Sweetie lived in denial of her age, desperately clinging to the notion that she could still turn heads.

Now, as you pushed through another round of push-ups in the living room, Laura perched on your back and laughing, you could feel the energy shift. The family clapped and cheered as you neared your final reps, everyone impressed by the playful show

“Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred!”

Laura hopped off, beaming, as you sat back on your knees, catching your breath. And then Sweetie spoke.

“Me next!”