I Shredded His Storybook Wife

Summary

My husband and daughter claimed they could step through the pages of an antique storybook hidden in our attic.

They told me they had another family waiting on the other side.

Every evening, after I spent hours coaxing my seven-year-old daughter to sleep, she would slip out from under the covers, clutching her duvet, and pad up the narrow wooden steps toward the attic.

"I’m going to let the other Mommy read to me," she would whisper, her eyes bright with a cruelty she was too young to fully disguise. "Her voice is softer than yours. She doesn't sound tired and ugly."