I Went to a Book Club for the Wine – And Woke Up Leading a Cult

When Olive joins a suburban book club, she expects wine, gossip, and the occasional novel. Instead, her offhand words spark devotion she never asked for. As admiration turns unsettling, Olive must decide whether to nurture the strange sisterhood... or walk away before it consumes her.

Honestly speaking, I joined the book club for the wine. It wasn't really about the books, although I did enjoy curling up with them. It wasn't really about the bonding either.

It was about the wine and cheese platters, and maybe the excuse to leave the house without wearing something my husband approved of.

The first meeting smelled like sweet candles and dead flowers. There were seven of us, all women, all smiling like we'd rehearsed it. One even brought her own cheese knife.

I liked her immediately.

Jenna was the hostess, with an immaculate house, gold earrings to die for, and a rosebush that looked fake in its perfection. But she had real rosé, which was a definite bonus.

Jenna welcomed me in like I was already one of them.

I wasn't. I hadn't belonged to anything in years.

My name's Olive, I'm 56, and I'm an empty-nester. I'm a semi-retired English literature teacher, married to Micah, a man who spends most of his waking hours in the garage tuning a vintage motorcycle that hasn't run since President Obama was in office.

Connection was a drug I hadn't tasted in so long. I didn't realize how much I missed it until I was already sipping.

So, yeah. I came for the wine.

We "discussed" "The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo" for 12 minutes. Then someone brought up her neighbor's affair, and that carried us through the next two hours. I didn't speak much, I just laughed in the right places and refilled glasses like a good little background character.

It should have ended right there.

But the thing about women over 50? Once we find something that feels even slightly like connection, we hold on to it like a lifeline. Or a weapon.

Or both.

The shift came during the third meeting.

It was a rainy Thursday, the kind where the sky stayed stubbornly gray and everything smelled faintly of wet pavement. Jenna's living room flickered with fairy lights and scented candles, the air warm and sweet with vanilla and something floral I couldn't place.

Everyone wore something flowy: maxi skirts, wide cardigans, and loose linen. I'd brought shortbread and left my bra at home.

That felt like progress, even when Micah grimaced as he watched me leave the house.

We were halfway through a glass pitcher of sangria when Kaitlin, sweet, wide-eyed, still married to a man who thought "foreplay" was doing the dishes, started crying.

It wasn't the delicate kind of crying either; this was a sudden, messy crack in her demeanor. Like an egg hitting a kitchen tile.

"I feel invisible," she said, blotting her eyes with a cocktail napkin. "I don't know who or what I am anymore."

The room went still. You could hear the hum of Jenna's refrigerator. No one knew where to look. The silence grew thick with discomfort and Chardonnay.

I felt the words rising before I'd even decided to speak.

"I think we all feel that way sometimes," I told her. "But maybe being invisible isn't an ending, Kaitlin. Maybe it's just the first step. Like shedding your skin... Like you're clearing space for something new to grow."

Her eyes lifted to mine, watery and searching.

"When we disappear," I continued. "It forces us to ask who we are without the roles we've been given. And the answer isn't always pretty. But it's real. And once you see it, you can't go back to being unseen."

No one moved.

"Damn, Olive," Jenna whispered. "That hit."

"I wish someone had said that to me ten years ago," Sandra leaned forward.

"You should talk more," Kaitlin said, reaching for my hand. "You make it... make sense."

"It's just the wine talking," I said, with a small, tight smile.

But by the next meeting, someone had created an Instagram account called @MotherSaidSo.

That someone was Kaitlin.

It got weird quickly after that.

Sandra left her husband. She just announced it at the next meeting over hummus and pita as though she were telling us she'd redecorated her living room. She wiped a crumb from her lip and smiled.

"Olive made me realize I was done waiting for change. I am the change. Right?"

The room went silent for a beat. Everyone was glancing between her and me, like I'd somehow signed the divorce paperwork myself.

"Sandra, I didn't mean—" I nearly choked on my pita.

"You don't have to explain, Olive," she said, smiling with the kind of brightness that could almost pass for joy. "You gave me the push. I've been half-living for years."

Then came the pendants. Little bronze circles etched with "M.O." They were passed around the table in tiny velvet pouches, like something out of a game of make-believe.

I asked if it stood for Mother Olive.

"Yes... or Manifesting Order," Jenna winked. "Pick your poison."

I laughed because it seemed easier than asking if they were serious.

But they were.

They started texting me outside of book club. Long, meandering messages about their husbands, their children, their bodies, and their regrets. Sometimes they asked for advice, sometimes they confessed secrets.

One asked me to make her some chicken soup.

"You're the only one I trust to nourish my body, Mother Olive," she texted. "Please, make me some soup that will fix all my... ailments."

Another asked me to bless her vision board, which she'd carefully arranged with photographs of Italian villas and a man who looked suspiciously like her kid's soccer coach.

"Sounds like a cult, Olive," Micah said, snorting. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into?"

My husband meant it as a joke, leaning back in his chair and sipping his beer.

"Don't be ridiculous," I laughed too loudly, then caught myself.

But later, in bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning shadows across the room, the word wouldn't leave me.

Cult.

Cults had leaders. Followers. Symbols. Mantras.

And the more I thought it, the more I had to wonder... what exactly had I started?

Soon, the gatherings weren't book clubs anymore.

We still pretended, cracking open a novel at the start of the night before setting it aside for candle rituals and cacao shots. The air always smelled like sandalwood and melting wax.

Someone brought a sound bowl once, claiming the vibrations "realigned our womb energy." Another turned up with goat cheese blessed by a Reiki healer in her garden.

I could see how they devoured every word I gave them, so I ran my own Google searches, looking for "rituals" that we could do. And cult or not, I felt each one in my body, though not always in the way they expected.

Then, there were the "Mother Said" quote cards, things I'd muttered offhand, printed in looping cursive and tucked into little glass frames. I found them in handbags, on bathroom mirrors, and on the fridge at Jenna's house.

"Discomfort is just growth in a fancy coat."

"Don't wait for permission to change."

The worst part? I didn't remember saying half of them.

At one gathering, Jenna introduced a guest speaker, Willa. She was her cousin, a willowy woman in a silk robe who taught sensual breathwork. Half the group cried. The other half moaned softly in a way that made me wish I'd stayed home.

I just drank my wine and nodded. I ate salted cashews and almonds and watched. I was no longer one of them.

I was above them.

And that terrified me.

The retreat was at my house.

Jenna called it a "Divine Reset Weekend." It was really just a sleepover with affirmation cards, herbal tea, and seven women in face masks discussing their womb trauma in my living room.

I tried to redirect them, lifting a copy of "Brida" from the coffee table. "Why don't we talk about this instead? Coelho writes, 'Accept your fears. If you don't, you'll never move on.' Seems like something we could all chew on for a while."

A few glanced at the book. No one bit.

Around 1 a.m., I padded into the kitchen for a glass of water. The house was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint murmur of the wind outside. That's when I saw her, Tracy, kneeling in the hallway.

She held a match in one hand, the other cradling a small note card as the flame almost kissed its edge.

"What's that?" I asked. "What are you doing?"

"A vow, Mother Olive," she said, flinching and fumbling to hide it behind her.

"To what?"

"To never betray Mother," she said, her eyes glassy.

"Don't call me that." My stomach turned. "Please... Tracy. Don't."

"But you saved me," she said, her voice cracking on saved. "You told me I could start over. No one's ever been like this with me before... No one has cared enough. If I burn my arm... I'll have a constant reminder of you, Mother Olive."

"That doesn't mean you owe me this," I told her. "You cannot burn your arm for me."

She shook her head and sighed, smiling faintly as if I didn't understand my own words.

"It's not about owing you, Mother Olive. It's about honoring you."

"Go to bed, Tracy," I said. My voice was quieter now, heavier.

She obeyed me, slipping past me with the match still clutched between her fingers.

I stood in the hallway long after she'd gone, the faint scent of burning paper curling into the air, wondering when a book club became something I couldn't name... and when I stopped wanting to stop it.

Micah left on Friday morning with his fishing gear rattling in the back of the truck. He kissed my cheek distractedly, already halfway to the river in his mind.

"You'll have the house to yourself and your... weirdos," he said, which under normal circumstances would have been a gift.

By Friday night, it didn't feel like mine anymore.

Sure, the first night of the retreat had been strange enough, Tracy with her vow, the affirmation and tarot card spread that ended with everyone crying. I'd gone to bed uneasy, telling myself it was just the wine and the late hour.

But the next day was even worse.

We spent the morning "cleansing" the kitchen, waving bundles of sage until my eyes watered. Someone draped silk scarves over every lamp, bathing the rooms in a strange, feverish glow.

"If my house goes up in flames, I swear, I'll riot," I muttered to myself.

We made lunch, then moved into the living room where "Brida" lay open on the coffee table like scripture.

Jenna picked it up and read aloud from it, her voice low and steady.

"Nothing in the world is ever completely wrong. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day."

She looked at me when she said it, as if the words were mine.

By the time night fell, the air felt heavy, thick with sandalwood smoke and something else I couldn't name.

Around eleven, Kaitlin suggested a "circle of truth." We sat cross-legged on the rug, knees touching. There were bowls of popcorn, silver trays of dates, and cacao nibs in the center of the circle. The candlelight flickered across their faces, softening them into something almost otherworldly.

Sandra spoke first, confessing that she'd been leaving notes in my mailbox, little affirmations that she never signed.

"I wanted you to know that you're seen, Mother Olive," she said, eyes shining.

Then Jenna leaned forward, her hands warm on my knees.

"We've been talking," she said. "About how to protect you. From people who might not understand what we're building."

"What we're building?" I repeated. "What exactly... are we building?"

"This space. This sisterhood," she said. "It's rare. It's sacred."

Before I could respond, Tracy reached into her tote bag and pulled out a small jar. Inside were thin strips of paper, each covered in handwriting.

"Our promises," she whispered. "We burn them to seal them."

They passed the jar around, each woman taking a slip, kissing it, and feeding it to the candle flame. The room filled with the faint scent of scorched paper and melted wax.

When the jar reached me, I didn't move.

"Olive," Kaitlin said softly. "Yours should be last. It should be the final blessing."

"I don't have one, ladies," I said, shaking my head.

The silence that followed pressed against my skin. Jenna's smile was gentle, but her eyes were sharp.

"Don't worry, you'll think of something, Mother Olive," Jenna said, her voice as warm as the candlelight. The words curled around me like silk, soft enough to flatter, tight enough to bind.

I smiled because it was easier than pulling away, though a part of me was already searching for the scissors.

Later, as they slept in the guest room and couches, I wandered the house, blowing out the candles. In the dim kitchen light, the quote cards on my fridge looked like warnings instead of inspiration.

Micah wouldn't be back until Monday. I'd have to end it before then... before the whole house belonged to them.

It was sometime after three when I woke to the soft click of my bedroom door.

Kaitlin slipped in first, her hair loose around her face, eyes glassy. Tracy followed, clutching a throw pillow like a child.

"We're feeling low," Kaitlin whispered. "We need some of your shine. Your energy. We need your aura to replenish ours..."

Before I could respond, Kaitlin eased herself onto the mattress beside me, her cold feet brushing my leg.

Tracy settled on the floor, the pillow wedged against my side of the bed.

"Just being close will help," she murmured, eyes already closing.

The air felt wrong, too still, too heavy. My pulse thudded in my ears.

I lay frozen, staring at the ceiling, while Kaitlin's slow breathing synced with mine.

Somewhere in the dark, I knew: this wasn't devotion at all. It was possession.

The next day, I tried to pull back.

"I think we need to recalibrate," I told the group over brunch. The table was scattered with croissants, melon slices, and half-empty glasses of mimosas. "Remember what we are... just a bunch of women who love stories."

Jenna's fork hovered above her plate.

"No, no. I just think it's getting a bit... intense," I said, forcing a light tone.

"But intensity is healing, isn't it?" Sandra leaned back in her chair, folding her arms.

"Sometimes," I replied. "But sometimes it swallows you whole. The trick is knowing the difference."

"Olive..." Kaitlin's gaze locked on mine. "Are you saying that you don't want to be our guide anymore?"

"I never was," I said, though my voice lacked conviction, and the weight of their silence made me wonder if I was lying to both them and myself.

The silence that followed was colder than the mimosa jug. I could feel them watching me, weighing my words, deciding whether I had just broken some unspoken vow.

That night, I stood in the kitchen holding the "loyalty candle" someone had gifted me, lavender wax molded into a spine. I turned it over in my hands, tracing the ridges like vertebrae.

I lit it and watched the wick spark and curl like a question I didn't want to answer, before blowing it out.

The next morning, I made coffee and sat across from Micah. He looked at me like I was a woman-shaped question mark.

"Was it fun?" he asked. "Being needed and... obsessed over?"

I stirred sugar into my mug.

"It was... something. At first, it felt good. Like I mattered in a way I hadn't in years. But now it feels... different. Heavy."

"What were you trying to prove?" He tilted his head.

I didn't answer. He didn't press.

"Are you going to stop this nonsense, Olive?"

"Yeah, I think I have to," I nodded.

"Good. You were starting to look like someone I didn't know," he said. He reached across the table, resting his calloused hand over mine.

Later, I posted a farewell on @MotherSaidSo:

"Sometimes the best guidance is silence. And sometimes silence is the only way to keep yourself from answering when they call your name."

I let it fester for a few hours. There were at least a hundred likes and comments. But I ignored them all.

Jenna took a screenshot and sent it to our group chat. Tracy sent a passive-aggressive thumbs-up emoji. Sandra sent a four-paragraph essay on betrayal and divine tests. Kaitlin sent nothing.

I sat with that one the longest. And then I deleted the entire Instagram page.

Two weeks later, I returned to Jenna's house with a copy of "Little Fires Everywhere," a charcuterie platter, and a bottle of red.

"Thought I'd crash the old club," I said at the door.

"Come on in," she replied.

No candles. No crystals. Just glasses of wine, snacks, and books.

"Glad you're back, Olive. We missed you," Kaitlin said. "We're still reading "Brida," you can borrow my copy."

I opened the book and turned the page like a prayer.

If you've enjoyed this story, here's another one for you: When elite party planner Charlotte is hired to create a lavish Halloween-themed 18th birthday, she expects drama, not danger. But as the night unfolds inside a fog-filled maze, something far darker slips between the costumes, and refuses to leave.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.