Our daughter-in-law is a predator with a sweet smile. She’s waiting for us to die so she can grab our home.
Believe me, it’s painful to write these words. Not because I want to tarnish the family reputation, but because I can’t fathom how things have come to this: sitting in the kitchen, clutching an old embroidered pillow, whispering to my husband that we’ll likely bequeath the house… to the church. Yes, you heard right — not to our son or our grandchildren, but to a church. Because otherwise, this house, built with our sweat and hope, will end up with a woman who entered our lives like a thief in the night—quietly, confidently, and with a calculated plan.
My name is Vera Davies, I’m 67, living with my husband right in the heart of Bath in a spacious flat we bought 22 years ago. We sold the cottage, saved the last of our money, took out a loan—every inch of this place is steeped in our blood, sweat, and dreams. We raised our son, hoping that one day he’d bring home a bride—kind, intelligent, reliable. Someone who’d enter not just our home but our hearts. Yet, it all turned out differently.
Five years ago, Stan—our only child—brought Emma home for the first time. Right away, I sensed she was an outsider. Not because of her nature, taste, or look. But in her essence. She just didn’t fit. Loud, boastful, with an air of arrogance. But most telling were her eyes. There was no respect, no sincerity. Just a calculated ambition and fake courtesy.
Stan fell completely under her spell, hanging on to her every word. She suggested marriage and he rushed to the registry office. My warnings that they should take their time and truly get to know each other were dismissed. He insisted it was love. And I… I stayed quiet. I didn’t want to lose my son.
After their wedding, they rented an apartment. We kept our distance, helping out now and again with money, groceries, gifts. But with each visit, Emma pushed her limits further. Criticisms, mockeries, insinuations. And my Stan? He just sat there, smiling. As if he truly believed his wife was pure gold.
Last Christmas, though, something happened that still feels like a knot in my throat. We invited them for dinner. I made Stan’s favorite dishes—roast duck with apples, salad, homemade pies. I wanted to create a cozy, homey atmosphere. And during dinner, I casually mentioned:
“Have you thought about your own place? While you’re young, you could get a mortgage. We’d help.”
Emma, unfazed, replied, “Why bother? You already have a house. It’ll end up ours anyway.”
I felt a cold blade run through my heart. I looked at her, not as the daughter-in-law who’d be the mother of my future grandchildren, but as a predatory shark. And the worst part—Stan didn’t say anything. Not a word! He just brushed it off and laughed.
After they left, I sat with Ben, my husband, in the kitchen. Usually calm and composed, for the first time, he said, “This won’t do. We don’t owe them anything.”
And that’s when we began talking about the will. We’ve decided: if things keep going this way, the house will go to the church we’ve lived near most of our lives. Not out of spite. But because we don’t want the place, where we’ve invested our very souls, to fall into the hands of a woman with a calculator for a heart.
All our lives, we dreamed of passing this home to our son, where grandchildren’s laughter would ring, where family traditions would be held dear. But not at such a cost.
I ponder whether to tell Stan the truth directly. But if I do, it might ruin our relationship. And if I don’t, I live each day picturing Emma rubbing her hands together, waiting for our demise. It’s heavy, it’s painful.
I keep hoping for a miracle—that he’ll see the light, that he’ll realize he’s being played. But with every passing day, that hope dims. He’s like a boy captivated by a grown woman. And she… she manipulates him however she pleases.
Has anyone out there been in a situation like this? Can you offer any advice? Because it rips my heart apart, watching my son become a shadow of himself… all for someone who’s waiting for us to close our eyes—not out of sorrow, but to clear her path to ‘inheritance.’
Please, help. While there’s still time. While we’re still alive.
