I still can’t look at turkey the same way. Last week I clicked on a random YouTube short called We’re Your Parents and ended up re-watching it ten times, pausing on every twitch of Mom’s smile and every flicker in Dad’s eyes.
The plot is simple: college freshman Erin comes home, senses something off. But the cast makes it crawl under your skin. Here’s what I learned about the three people who ruined Thanksgiving for me.
- Part 1: Everything You Should Know About the Plot of We’re Your Parents Cast
- Part 2: Meet the Main Characters of We’re Your Parents Cast – The Actors Who Scared Me
- Part 3: Overall Thoughts About the We’re Your Parents Cast – Why These Three Still Haunt Me
- Part 4: Amazing Show That You Will Go Absolutely Crazy For – After We’re Your Parents, Queue Up I Am Bloody Mary
Part 1: Everything You Should Know About the Plot of We’re Your Parents Cast
The story of We’re Your Parents full movie on ReelShort drops us at the front door with Erin, duffel bag slung over her shoulder, autumn leaves crunching under Converse sneakers. She’s back from her first semester, buzzing with dorm stories and ready for the family’s “legendary” Thanksgiving feast.
Mom greets her wearing an apron that reads “Give Thanks” in pumpkin-orange letters, but the hug lasts one beat too long. Dad stands at the stove stirring gravy, never turning around when Erin says, “Hi, Daddy.” That was my first goose-bump.
At the table the camera lingers on the turkey—bronzed, glistening, photographed like a jewelry ad. Erin jokes about vegan roommates, but her parents don’t laugh; they watch her chew. Every time Erin asks a normal question: “How’s Aunt Carol?” Mom answers with the same robotic “She’s thankful.”
The repetition feels like a broken toy. Halfway through the meal Erin’s phone buzzes; it’s her roommate texting, “You alive?” The phone suddenly loses signal. Mine did too. Okay, not really, but I actually checked my bars.
The twist creeps instead of pounces. Erin notices the basement door is padlocked from the outside. She remembers her childhood dog who “ran away” last summer; Mom claims the pet is “in a better place,” then adds, “We’re all in a better place now.”
Dad finally faces the camera, his eyes are glassy, almost wet, yet he smiles like a mannequin. Erin’s fork clinks against her plate; the sound is mixed so loudly it feels like a gun-cock.
The last two minutes are a masterclass in low-budget dread, the kind that doesn’t need special effects because it weaponizes the ordinary. Mom rises first, slow and deliberate, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin that suddenly looks too white. Her whisper, “It’s time”, lands like a prayer turned inside out.
Dad follows suit, producing a carving knife that catches the light in a way the turkey fork never did.
Erin backs toward the living-room window, her breath shallow, her reflection trembling in the glass. Then she sees what we see: every family photo on the mantel, her face methodically scratched out. Not slashed in anger, removed with care. The camera lingers half a second too long, then cuts to black.
No screams. No gore. Just the faint hiss of oven drippings, steady as a dying heartbeat. I sat frozen on my couch, clutching a bowl of cereal gone soggy, suddenly aware of how vast and silent my apartment had become.
What makes it unbearable is the normalcy. None of the cast rely on cheap jump-scare faces or horror clichés; they move like people you’ve waved at a hundred times, the kind who borrow sugar and talk about weather. That’s precisely why, when the credits rolled, I got up and turned on every single light. Normal had never looked so menacing.
Part 2: Meet the Main Characters of We’re Your Parents Cast – The Actors Who Scared Me
Maria Barseghian plays Erin with the exact exhaustion I had at eighteen: eyes ringed from mid-terms, hoodie reeking of dorm pizza. What struck me is how she drops the typical horror-heroine panic. Instead, her fear shows in micro-flinches.
I googled Maria later and found amazing things; maybe that’s why she knows where the camera is at every moment, letting it come to her rather than over-acting. Watching her felt like re-living my first Thanksgiving back home when I realized my bedroom had been turned into an exercise space overnight.
Annie Sullivan’s Mom is the reason I double-locked my door. Annie has one of those soft faces your instinct trusts: rosy cheeks, mom-bob haircut. So when the smile stiffens, the betrayal is personal. I read in a Reddit AMA that Annie practiced by staring at herself in a mirror for ten minutes straight, waiting for her eyes to “go vacant.”
The trick works. There’s a shot where she’s buttering a roll and her knuckles whiten; the bread tears, but her gaze never leaves Erin. I actually paused the video to breathe.
Michael Perl gives Dad the stillness of a stuffed moose. He barely speaks, yet his silence fills the short like rising dough. Michael’s background is mostly stage work, and you feel it in the way he plants his feet: solid, immovable, like he’s been blocking that kitchen for twenty years.
His only line, delivered in a monotone Southern lilt, is “Gravy’s the glue that keeps us together.” I laughed the first time; the second time I shivered.
Together the trio form a triangle with Erin at the narrow top, slowly being squeezed.
Part 3: Overall Thoughts About the We’re Your Parents Cast – Why These Three Still Haunt Me
I’ve sat through big-budget horror where A-listers phone in “creepy” by whispering and tilting their heads. What makes Maria, Annie, and Michael different is how ordinary they keep it.
Their costumes look pulled from my own laundry: faded NFL tee, grocery-store apron, orthopedic sneakers. Because nothing screams “uncanny” like your own life mirrored back with the eyes removed.
The chemistry is clinical, not warm. Notice how they never interrupt each other; every line lands in a neat gap, the way cult members recite vows.
I suspect the actors rehearsed around a real dinner table until the timing felt domestic, then shaved off the spontaneity. The result is a symphony of wrong notes you can’t name.
Another layer: age realism. Annie and Michael look like they could be parents of a college kid: no Hollywood Botox, no twenty-something playing forty. That authenticity makes Erin’s suspicion believable. If Mom looked like a CW star, I’d expect conspiracy; because she looks like my aunt, I trust her until it’s too late.
Finally, the restraint they show is merciless. Modern horror sometimes mistakes volume for terror. These three stay at Thanksgiving volume: polite, slightly bored, until the viewer amplifies it in his own head.
I caught myself leaning in, heart drumming, as if my laptop speaker had secretly turned itself down. At the end, the silence felt like a scream.
I’ve rewatched twice more, trying to spot a tremor or a cue I missed; the cast plays it so straight that I’m still not sure whether Erin is paranoid or I am. That ambiguity is the performance’s triumph.
Part 4: Amazing Show That You Will Go Absolutely Crazy For – After We’re Your Parents, Queue Up I Am Bloody Mary
When the screen cut to black on Erin’s fate, my pulse needed somewhere to sprint. YouTube’s algorithm, evil genius that it is, served me I Am Bloody Mary next. Same micro-budget vibe, same single-location claustrophobia, but swap turkey dinner for a bridal gown.
Mare, played by a wisp-thin actress with freckles like cinnamon, wants nothing but a family photo on her wedding day—simple, right? Except her fiancé Nick keeps dodging questions about his estranged clan.
When Mom-in-Law finally appears, she’s draped in old money and offers the Thornwood estate for the ceremony. The mansion looks like it smells of lavender and foreclosure.
What glued me to my seat was Mare’s face during the rehearsal dinner. She smiles the way I smile at office parties: lips only, eyes scanning exits. The actress lets the dread leak in slowly: a blink that sticks, a champagne sip turned gulp.
By morning, the dream shatters; I won’t spoil the discovery, but it involves the wine cellar and a wedding dress that will never see daylight.
The two shorts share DNA: both trap a woman at a ritual meant to celebrate belonging—Thanksgiving, wedding—and twist it into an initiation she never agreed to.
Both rely on performances so grounded you forget the camera. After the double-feature I sat in the dark, stuffed from emotional carbs, swearing off family gatherings and heirloom estates for at least a year.
If you crave that same “did I just hear the floor creak?” aftertaste, cue I Am Bloody Mary next. Just don’t watch it with your parents; mine now think I’m avoiding them for a reason. I am.
