Stolen and Gone: How My Mother-in-Law and Sister-in-Law Robbed My Children of Their Future
I always believed family was a pillar of strength—that those closest to you would never betray, humiliate, or devalue you. But reality proved harsher than my worst fears. My mother-in-law and her daughter didn’t just make our lives miserable—they stole my children’s chance at a happy future. And they did it with my own husband’s full approval.
When James still had a decent job, he dutifully provided for his “precious” mum and sister:
“Mum, we’ve got bills to pay…”
“Darling, we’ve no money for food…”
“James, I can’t even fill up the car…”
“Emily and I want to see the theatre—get us tickets!”
He’d run to them like an obedient dog, always with cash, concern, and a guilty smile. At first, I stayed quiet. Then I tried to speak up. Eventually, I gave up—especially after my second maternity leave and his sudden redundancy.
Instead of lifting a finger to find even a modest job, James spent days sprawled on the sofa, moaning about “unfairness” and refusing temporary work. His skills were “too good” for what was on offer, he claimed.
I had to return to work early, leaving the kids with him. A week in, just as I settled into the rhythm, the calls started—but now to me, not him. His mum and sister had found a “new delivery address” for their demands.
I snapped. Told them if they needed money, they could work for it. The free ride was over. Of course, they complained to James. And instead of backing me, he invited them into our home.
Yes, just like that. I came back from work to find his mother and sister with suitcases. They’d rented out their flat for “extra income,” as Mum put it. So now they’d live with us—three more mouths on my salary. No one asked me.
I walked in, still in my boots, when his mother barked:
“Oh, you’re back! Where’s dinner?”
James took my coat, murmuring,
“Love, don’t be angry. Mum and Em are in a tough spot—it’s just for a while. We can’t abandon them, can we?”
“A while” turned into months. The kitchen was a disaster—kids smeared in chocolate, dirty pots, piled-up dishes. My one-year-old had been given a whole chocolate bar, sticky hands untouched. I saw red.
Everyone got an earful. The result? Mum-in-law peeled potatoes; Emily washed dishes. If they wanted to live here, they’d earn their keep. I wasn’t their maid.
But weeks passed, and our “guests” dug in. Their rent money vanished in days, then came the begging. When I refused, the tantrums started. Peace left our home.
On my birthday, Emily couldn’t muster a “happy birthday,” and Mum mumbled something half-hearted. We fled to my parents’, where warmth awaited—hugs, Mum’s knitted jumper, and… a lottery ticket.
Just like childhood—I’d always loved the lottery. With my daughter on my lap, I checked the numbers. Then—a win. A real one! We screamed, laughed. James was stunned; his mother scoffed,
“Don’t celebrate yet—probably a mistake.”
I double-checked. No mistake. Not a fortune, but enough for private school for our eldest and nursery for the youngest. I lay awake dreaming of the life we’d build.
By morning—silence. Too quiet. Their rooms were empty. James’ documents gone. The lottery ticket—stolen.
They’d fled. Taken it all.
Years later, I’m here with my girls. James lost everything—gambled, drank, squandered on holidays. His mother’s in rehab. Emily’s child has severe health problems. James’ liver is failing.
But in our home, there’s warmth. No betrayal.
Sometimes I think: maybe it’s for the best. They stole the money. But not my strength, my love, or my pride. And that’s what truly matters.
