Chapter 2: Group Chat Blitz

When I saw my mother-in-law post the video in the group chat, I knew things were about to get ugly. My phone kept buzzing with notifications—my cousins-in-law and Derek’s aunts chiming in with “How could she!” and angry emojis.

Regret washed over me. I should’ve just waited until nightfall, when the house was quiet, and suggested to Derek that we toss them straight into the outdoor garbage bin, right before trash pickup. No evidence, no drama, and no one would’ve been the wiser. But now the damage was done.

After my mother-in-law finished uploading her video and wailing into her phone, she stalked into the kitchen, clutching the bag of ruined pierogi. Her sniffles echoed against the fridge door.

I obediently brought out the big plastic Tupperware and set it on the counter, feeling as guilty as a kid caught sneaking cookies. I watched as she carefully picked through the pierogi and set the salvageable ones back inside.

Luckily, most of them weren’t ruined. Only about a dozen had split open, their fillings oozing out like sad little casualties.

Without a word, she rolled up her sleeves, re-kneaded the dough, rolled out new wrappers, and dug out the filling to re-wrap each pierogi. Her movements were mechanical, but her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

I waited for her to finish, my hands tucked into my hoodie pocket. Together, we slipped the repackaged pierogi back into the freezer, the icebox humming quietly in the background.

Her eyes brimmed with tears the whole time. I could feel the awkwardness in the air—like we were strangers forced to play house.

I said nothing. The silence between us felt louder than any shouting could.

We silently finished the whole process together, the only sound the squeak of the countertop and the click of the freezer door.

At that moment, there was a knock from the living room—a heavy-handed pounding that meant trouble.

Mother-in-law went to open the door, her posture stiff, like she was bracing for a blizzard.

A moment later, her crying echoed through the house, bouncing off the wood-paneled walls. My heart clenched as I heard my husband’s older brother’s voice—a deep, anxious shout: “Mom, stop crying. Where’s Natalie?”

Mother-in-law sobbed, her voice full of grievance: “I know Natalie doesn’t like fatty meat, so I bought lean ground pork just for her. I got up at four in the morning to start cooking. I rolled the wrappers by hand, chopped the filling by hand, wrapped each pierogi myself. After working for hours, my hands were frozen stiff, and I didn’t even have time for breakfast. But she didn’t eat a single one—she threw them all away. What did I do wrong? Why does she hate me so much? Even if I offended her, the pierogi didn’t do anything! Why did she throw them in the trash?”

Her words sounded even more dramatic in person than in the video, and I felt the shame prickle on the back of my neck.

Big brother’s voice was full of distress: “Don’t be upset, Mom. Where’s Natalie? I’ll go talk to her.”

Before mother-in-law could answer, little sister-in-law’s voice rang out, shrill and sharp: “Natalie, come out!”

Big brother scolded her: “How can you call your sister-in-law by her name?”

“Please!” Little sister-in-law spat. “Does she even deserve to be called sister-in-law? My mom’s never been bullied like this in her life. She thinks she can just walk all over us? Natalie, come out and face us!”

Her footsteps pounded toward the kitchen, each step telegraphing the storm she was about to bring.