Our daughter-in-law is a predator wearing a pink smile. She’s waiting for us to pass away to grab the house.
Believe me, it’s painful for me to write these words. Not because I want to tarnish any family members, but because I can’t comprehend how we got to this point: sitting in the kitchen, clutching my old embroidered pillow to my chest, whispering to my husband that we’ll likely leave our house… to the church. Yes, you heard that right—not to our son or grandkids, but to a church. Because otherwise, the house, built with our blood, sweat, and tears, would go to a woman who entered our lives like a thief in the night—quietly, confidently, and with a premeditated plan.
My name is Vera Smith, I’m 67 years old, and I live with my husband in a spacious three-bedroom flat in the heart of London that we bought 22 years ago. Back then, we sold our country home, used the last of our savings, and took a loan—every square inch of this flat is steeped in sweat, fears, and hopes. We raised our son, dreaming of the day he’d bring home a bride—kind, smart, reliable. Someone who would enter not just the house but our hearts. But things turned out differently.
Five years ago, Stan—our only son—brought home Lisa for the first time. Right away, I felt she was an outsider. Not because of her personality or taste, but in essence. She didn’t fit in. Loud, brash, with a condescending smile. But mostly, it was the eyes. There was no respect or sincerity. Just cold calculation and fake politeness.
Stan, as if hypnotized, listened to her every word. She spoke, and he was spellbound. She suggested marriage—he rushed to the registry office. When I tried to reason with him that it was too soon, that they should get to know each other—he got offended. Said he loved her. And I… I stayed silent. I didn’t want to lose my son.
After the wedding, they rented a flat. We didn’t interfere, supported them as much as we could—with money, groceries, gifts. But with each visit, Lisa allowed herself more. Complaints, mockery, insinuations. And my Stan? He just sat and smiled. As if he truly believed his wife was a treasure.
Last Christmas, something happened that still sticks in my throat. We invited them over for dinner. I cooked Stan’s favorite dishes—roast duck with apples, potato salad, homemade pastries. I wanted to make them feel at home. And during dinner, I casually said:
— Have you thought about getting your own place? While you’re young, you could get a mortgage. We’ll help.
Lisa, without a hint of embarrassment, replied:
— Why? You have a flat. We’ll inherit it anyway.
Inside, I froze. It felt like a cold blade had sliced through my heart. I looked at her and didn’t see a daughter-in-law, not the future mother of my grandchildren, but a shark with lipstick. And worst of all, Stan said nothing. Not a word! Just shrugged it off and laughed.
After they left, I sat with my husband, Bob, in the kitchen for a long time. He, usually calm and reserved, said for the first time in his life:
— This won’t do. We don’t owe them anything.
And that’s when we first spoke of leaving a will. If things continue this way, the house will go to the church, near which we’ve spent most of our lives. Not because we’re spiteful. But because we don’t want the place, we poured our soul into, to fall into the hands of a woman with a heart calculator.
All our lives, we dreamt of passing the house to our son, to fill it with the laughter of grandchildren, to preserve family traditions. But not at such a cost.
I wonder: Should I tell Stan everything directly? But if I do, it will ruin our relationship. If I don’t, I’ll live every day knowing Lisa is rubbing her hands, waiting for us to die. It’s heavy on me, it’s hurtful.
I only hope for a miracle—that he’ll open his eyes, see through her games. But with each day, that hope dims. He’s like a boy enchanted by an older woman. And she… manipulates him as she pleases.
Have any of you been in a similar situation? Can you advise what to do? It breaks my heart to see my own son become a shadow of himself… for someone waiting for me to close my eyes—not in grief, but to clear her path to “inheritance.”
Please, advise. Before it’s too late. While we’re still alive.
