About a month ago, strange noises began after my husband, Aaron, left for a work trip. Thuds and whispers from the attic made my stomach churn. One night, hearing deliberate footsteps, I grabbed a bat, ready to face whatever was up there.
Ignoring Aaron’s cryptic text, “Ella, please don’t go up there,” I opened the attic door—only to find my mother-in-law, Diane, holding a paintbrush and looking guilty.
She explained Aaron was secretly transforming the attic into a baking studio for me, a surprise to support my passion. Diane had been overseeing the project, and the noises were her—or her back stretching.
When Aaron returned, we finished the studio together. Now, every time I step into that sunlit space, I’m reminded of their quiet, thoughtful love—and tease Diane about being the “attic ghost.”
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