A Good Guest

Cassandra stood between Big Aunty and Grace's door.

Her body was tense—her shoulders squared, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her feet planted firmly on the cold wooden floor. The hallway was dark, lit only by the pale glow of the moon streaming through the window. Big Aunty's hand was still on the doorknob, her fingers curled around the brass.

"Step away from the door," Cassandra said. Her voice was low. Steady. Dangerous.

Big Aunty's smile faded. "You're overreacting."

"I'm protecting my daughter."

Dante appeared in the hallway.

He'd heard the voices—Cassandra's sharp whisper, Big Aunty's cold tone. He'd thrown off the covers and crossed the room in seconds, his heart pounding, his mind racing.

He saw Big Aunty outside Grace's room. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists.

He crossed the hallway in three long strides.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Big Aunty said. She pulled her hand away from the doorknob, her smile returning. "I was just checking on the baby. I couldn't sleep."

Dante stepped between her and Cassandra. His body was a wall—broad, solid, unyielding.

"You don't go near Grace," he said quietly. "Not without our permission. Understood?"

Big Aunty's eyes narrowed. She didn't respond. She just turned and walked back to her room, her heels clicking against the floor.

---

The next morning, something changed.

Cassandra woke to the smell of coffee and bacon. She padded to the kitchen, her brow furrowed, and found Big Aunty standing at the stove.

She was cooking. Actually cooking. Pancakes, bacon, eggs—the works.

"Good morning," Big Aunty said. Her voice was warm. Her smile was bright. "I thought I'd make breakfast for a change."

Cassandra stared at her.

Dante appeared behind her, his hair still damp from the shower. He saw Big Aunty at the stove and raised an eyebrow.

"What's this?"

"Breakfast." Big Aunty gestured to the table. "Sit. Eat."

Dante sat. Cassandra sat. They exchanged a look—confused, suspicious—but they ate.

The food was good.

Big Aunty didn't criticize. She didn't make comments. She didn't try to hold Grace. She just... helped.

She cleaned the dishes. She folded the laundry. She swept the floor. She did everything Cassandra would have done—without being asked.

Dante watched her, his brow furrowed. He didn't trust it. But he also didn't see the harm.

---

By the end of the week, Dante had softened.

He talked to his big aunty. Listened to her stories. Laughed at her jokes. He began to believe she'd changed—that she was trying to make amends.

"She's not so bad," he told Cassandra one night.

Cassandra didn't respond.

"She's trying. You have to admit that."

"She's trying to get close to you. To gain your trust."

Dante sighed. "Maybe. But maybe she's also trying to be better."

---

Daniel visited that weekend.

He walked into the cottage, saw Dante laughing with Big Aunty in the living room, and stopped. His face went pale.

He pulled Cassandra aside.

"She's manipulating him," he said quietly. "She's trying to get close. To gain his trust."

Cassandra nodded. "I know."

"Then why aren't you doing anything?"

"Because I'm waiting. Watching. She'll slip up eventually. They always do."

---

That night, Big Aunty joined them for dinner.

She was charming. Funny. Warm. She told stories about her childhood—about Dante's father, about the family. She made Dante laugh. She made Cassandra smile—despite herself.

But Cassandra didn't trust her.

She never would.

---

The next morning, big aunty continued to be helpful.

She woke before dawn every morning—before Cassandra, before Dante, before Grace. She moved through the cottage like a ghost, quiet and efficient. She made breakfast—eggs, pancakes, fresh coffee. She cleaned the kitchen until it sparkled. She folded laundry and stacked it neatly in the closets.

She didn't criticize. She didn't make snide comments. She didn't try to hold Grace without permission.

She was kind. Warm. Almost pleasant.

Dante noticed. He appreciated it. He started to relax around her—to laugh at her jokes, to listen to her stories, to believe she'd changed.

Cassandra watched. She waited. She didn't trust it.

---

Dante's big aunty went out shopping on a Tuesday morning.

She returned three hours later, her arms laden with bags. She set them on the kitchen table, her smile bright.

"For the baby," she said, pulling out tiny clothes—onesies, dresses, little socks. "I couldn't resist."

Cassandra stared at the clothes. They were beautiful. Expensive. Nothing Big Aunty would have bought before.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Big Aunty beamed.

She bought more.

A new coffee maker for the kitchen—stainless steel, sleek, expensive. A framed painting for the living room—a landscape of the lake, soft and peaceful. A soft blanket for Cassandra—cashmere, gray, warm.

"I saw it and thought of you," Big Aunty said, handing her the blanket.

Cassandra took it. She didn't know what to say.

Dante was won over.

He sat with Big Aunty in the living room, laughing at her stories, listening to her advice. He told Cassandra she should give her a chance.

"She's trying," he said. "Maybe she's changed."

"She hasn't."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

---

Big Aunty made dinner for all.

A family recipe, she said—something her mother used to make. She served everyone, her smile warm, her eyes bright. She asked about their day. She listened. She laughed.

Dante was relaxed. Happy. He laughed at her jokes, ate second helpings, told her she should stay longer.

Cassandra forced herself to eat. She watched Big Aunty over the rim of her glass. Waiting.

---

That evening, Cassandra confronted her.

She found Big Aunty in the guest room, folding clothes. She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed.

"I don't know what you're doing," Cassandra said quietly. "But I don't trust you."

Big Aunty's smile faded. "I'm not doing anything."

"You've been kind. Helpful. Generous. But I've seen you before. I know who you are."

Big Aunty's eyes hardened. "You don't know anything."

"I know you're hiding something."

Big Aunty laughed.

It was a cold, brittle sound—nothing like the warm, pleasant woman she'd been pretending to be.

"You're paranoid," she said. "Just like your mother."

Cassandra's blood ran cold. "Don't talk about my mother."

"Why not? She was weak. Just like you."

Cassandra stepped forward. Her hands were shaking.

"Get out."

Big Aunty smiled. "I'm not going anywhere."

---

That night, Cassandra sat by Grace's crib.

She watched her daughter sleep—the tiny chest rising and falling, the little fists curled against her cheeks. She thought about Big Aunty. About the gifts. About the smiles. About the act.

She didn't know what Big Aunty was planning. But she knew she was planning something.

She just had to wait.

---

The next morning, Big Aunty announced she was leaving.

"I've overstayed my welcome," she said. Her smile was bright. Her voice was warm. "I'll go."

Dante was surprised. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." She hugged him—tight, lingering. "Take care of yourself, Dante."

She walked to the door. Cassandra followed her—close behind, her arms crossed.

Big Aunty turned at the threshold. Her smile faded. Her eyes hardened.

"I'll be back," she whispered. "And next time, I won't be so nice."