In-Laws Out of Time
by Charles C. Cole
To begin with, this was the weirdest Jack and Jill baby shower I’d ever participated in. Ostensibly, men and women were encouraged, equally, to attend but, after a few minutes, all the young men jumped in their trucks and went to a driving range to smack golf balls.
This left me, father of the bride, sitting outside with the groom’s elderly uncle watching the lawn sprinkler while the ladies rallied over some male-free time inside. To make it more festive, there was an electric bubble machine atop a bird feeder constantly blowing bubbles, which only we experienced.
Another chorus of laughing exploded from inside. Uncle Gaylord was not happy. A retired biology professor, Gaylord harrumphed. I could easily imagine him harrumphing in front of a classroom of intimidated undergrads.
“I take it you don’t approve,” I offered.
“Always found the so-called lighter side of life as alien. Takes energy and stamina to make it in this world.”
“Amen.”
He squinted at me a moment. “You seem a good guy. You’re gonna have to give them the space to make their mistakes. And, for God’s sake, don’t show up unannounced on Sunday mornings like my in-laws did. Some things you can’t unsee.”
“I promise,” I said with a big I’m-on-your-side smile.
“Can I tell you something, Cliffy, just between us?”
“I’m open to the wisdom of the wiser and more experienced man of the world.” He was at least fifteen years older than me and a still-hurting widower.
“I got nothing against in-laws in theory, but mine came over every weekend for the first three years of my marriage. My father-in-law instructed me on lawn maintenance and workbench etiquette while my mother-in-law helped my wife choose window treatments and furniture. This was before I had tenure, so I was watching every penny.”
“Your wife didn’t work?”
“She had dreams of being a painter. I figured we could afford it. And I liked the idea of being married to an artist, like we’d offer both perspectives to our unborn child. Yep, after three years, we were finally pregnant.”
“Well, they left one day after I’d been grumpier than usual at the wrong end of advice on marriage and parenting. I promised my wife to make amends, and I would have. But they went to their vacation condo in Florida and died in their sleep of carbon monoxide poisoning. A freak accident. Jillian, my wife, was devastated.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. We managed to hold onto their condo as a vacation home of sorts, though we only got there a couple weeks each year. Crazy Florida.”
“Lucky you,” I said.
“Jillian left the place exactly as it had been when her parents were alive. When Skip, your daughter’s new cousin-in-law, was about three, something happened.”
“No more freak accidents,” I implored him.
“We slept in her parents’ bedroom and Skip, in her childhood room. One night, I woke bolt upright to a flash of lightning and thunder overhead, at least that’s what I thought. So, I was surprised and confused to see Jillian still sleeping. I got out of bed and walked to the door to listen for crying from Skip.
“That’s when I realized the ‘lightning’ never ended; it was almost like floodlights were aimed at the house. For some reason, I looked up, and there was no ceiling overhead, only sky. It was like the enchanted Great Hall in those damn Harry Potter books.
“I stepped onto the landing at the top of the stairs where I encountered two four-foot tall, bald, big-eyed gray aliens levitating between them my unconscious son, still wearing his zoo-animals pajamas. I didn’t have time to be shocked; I was mad: all Papa Bear. I was about to kick butt. I was going to grab them by their Tootsie Pop heads and toss them over the railing to the first level below, but I was frozen. I couldn’t move, and I couldn’t speak.
“So, I screamed at them in my mind. Maybe that’s all telepathy is. I figure they can’t muffle my outrage. Bring him back or so help me...!
“The nearer alien wagged a long finger in my face and responded: Soon. Go back to bed.
“As they approached the outside wall of the condo, the aliens turned transparent, into bubbles of energy with humanoid outlines, almost like 4-foot tall glowing paramecium. Maybe so they could phase through solid matter? I realized I’d lost.
“But then, suddenly, two other etheric humanoid figures dropped from above us, taller and light blue. They glowed with authority. They grabbed Skipper by his ankles, and I’m pretty sure they instructed the shorter ones, telepathically, to leave the premises.
“Next thing: it’s morning. I smelled bacon. Always been my favorite alarm clock. I never smelled a more reassuring smell. From the top of the stairs, I heard Jillian and Skip chatting. I remembered the events of the night before and lost all energy. I sank down on the top step to compose myself.
“Skip — always generous to a fault — said, ‘Mommy, can we make extra in case Grammie and Grandpa come back?’
“‘Honey,’ said Jillian, ‘that’s very nice, but Gaga and Gumpa are a long plane ride away.’
“‘No, Grammie and Grandpa. You’re sleeping in their bed. She has the long red fingernails and he has the thick moustache like a walrus.’
“I watched Skip walk over to the fridge, which was covered with old photos. ‘Like in the picture,’ he said.
“Skip had never met Jillian’s parents, because they’d died before he was born. I realized the other energy beings had been my in-laws, intruding again and protecting my son.”
I stared at Uncle Gaylord. He did not bat an eye or in any way back down from this outrageous tale.
“And the moral of the story?” I asked gently.
“Don’t give marital advice, sleep with the windows open, and if you ever feel like your daughter really needs you, don’t hesitate for a moment, because you’re probably right.”
Copyright © 2026 by Charles C. Cole
