Ex-Daughter-in-Law Left Struggling with Children — But What Unfolded a Month Later Astonished Her Former In-Laws!

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 13 minViews 3

Emma stared at the phone screen. A text from Mark was blunt: Divorce filed. Take the kids and out by Friday.

What? Divorce? she nearly knocked over her mug of tea.

The next ring was her motherinlaws number.

Hello, Margaret?

Emma, youve heard, havent you? Margarets voice was oddly upbeat. Marks made his choice. The flat is ours we bought it before you married. He even reregistered the car in his name last week.

Emma sank onto the edge of her chair. One thought whirled through her head: Last week? Hed been planning this all along?

And the kids? Emma asked.

Thats on you, Margaret snapped. Mark says hell sort child support the bare minimum, and only when the court orders it.

Sorry, Ive got another call. Bye! Margaret hung up.

Emma glanced at the clock. Soon Oliver and Poppy would be home from school. How was she supposed to tell them theyd have to pack up and leave the house theyd known for seven years?

Another buzz. A text from Claire, Marks sister: Typical. You never appreciated Mark. Always nagging.

Im nagging? Emma almost threw the phone. I worked two jobs while your brother was finding himself?

They packed in a day. Emma found a room in a council flat on the towns edge. The landlady, a plump woman with tired eyes, just looked at the kids and said, Move in. First month and deposit up front.

The children were silent the whole way to their new place. Poppy, nine, clutched Olivers hand. Oliver, twelve, lugged his backpack, his brow furrowed like an adults.

Mom, does Dad know where were going? he asked as they stood in the tiny, peelingwall room.

No. And he wont find out unless he asks.

And Grandma? Poppy whispered.

We wont be calling Grandma either.

That evening, after squeezing the kids onto the foldout couch, Emma sat by the window. A neighbour snored through the thin wall, and somewhere below a drunken crowd argued in the garden.

And now? she muttered to the darkness.

At work, they didnt keep her. Redundancies, her boss said, eyes downcast. Emma guessed Mark had pulled some strings he knows a few people in town.

A week after the move, Margaret called.

Emma, how are you? Worried about the grandkids.

Wonderful, Margaret. Absolutely brilliant.

Got any money? Maybe maybe call Mark? Make up? Why put the kids through this?

Thanks, but well manage.

Oh, dont be proud! How long will you last without us? A month? Two? Mark says you cant even hammer a nail.

Emma closed her eyes. How many times in ten years of marriage had she heard those lines? Without us youre nothing. We pulled you out of the mud. Be grateful Mark married you.

You know, Margaret, your son is right. I dont know much, but Ill learn.

That night, after the kids were asleep, there was a tentative knock.

Neighbour! an elderly lady from the flat above said, stepping into the doorway. Im Ethel. Heard youre in a spot of trouble. Fancy a cup of tea?

Over tea, Ethel told Emma about the benefits she could claim, free classes at the community centre, and places to look for side gigs.

My daughter went through the same. She turned it around, and so will you.

Emma lay awake, drafting ads: House cleaning, Dog walking, Minor mending. The phone stayed silent. Marks family never called, but she stopped waiting for them.

Three days later, the phone rang. A woman on the other end offered a twobedroom cleanup job across town.

Two hours, she said. £5.

Too little, Emma replied, surprising herself. £7.

£6, no more.

On her way back, Emma bought bread, pasta and some minced beef.

Oliver, Poppy, come here, she called as she entered the tiny kitchen. Were going to learn to cook.

Dad said you cook badly, Oliver muttered, stirring the pasta.

Dad said a lot of things, Emma ruffled his hair. Now well all learn together.

Ethel helped her file for benefits and suggested free clubs for the kids.

Dance and chess at the community centre, she said. Poppys energetic, Olivers sharp. Let them go, you can work while theyre there.

In the evenings, Emma pulled an old sewing machine out of a skip, fixed it up, and started taking orders for curtains from neighbours.

Youve got golden hands, Ethel praised. Just make sure you charge enough. Dont sell yourself short.

Meanwhile at Marks house, the conversation was flowing.

Shell last a month at best, Margaret declared, pouring tea for her daughter and Mark. Where can she go with two kids? No skills, no proper education.

Think shell crawl back? Marks sister Claire sneered.

Where else? Margaret shot back, looking at her son. Youre not exactly rushing with child support.

Were not officially divorced yet, Mark grumbled. And Im struggling too. Poppys leaving the salon, the business is shaky.

Your mistress? Claire spat. The one you ripped the family for?

I didnt rip it, I freed myself, Mark snapped. Enough about Emma. Lets finish our tea and head to the new restaurant.

On Saturday at the market, Emma sold her first handmade aprons and pot holders. The kids helped Poppy arranged the stall, Oliver shouted out to passersby.

What a lovely family, a welldressed woman in her forties said, stopping by. What do you do?

My own thing, Emma answered shyly. I sew in the evenings.

Are you a professional? the woman asked.

No, selftaught.

She examined the aprons thoughtfully. Im Marina, wife of the director at the town sports centre. We could use someone with your skill. Pop by on Monday, lets chat.

Back home, Emma was buzzing.

Mom, why are you pacing? Oliver asked.

Ive got a job offer! A proper one!

Hooray! Poppy cheered. Can we buy new pencils?

And move out of here, Emma said, nodding. If it works out.

At the sports centre, Emma was welcomed warmly. The director, a tall man with a crisp bearing, explained:

We need someone to clean and to mend sports uniforms, sew numbers, even make costumes for performances.

I can do that, Emma replied firmly.

I believe you, Marina smiled. Start next week.

That night Emma cried not from grief but from relief.

Ethel, Im doing it, she whispered in the neighbours kitchen. Its really working!

What did you expect? the elderly lady said, nodding. You just werent given a chance before. Now fly, love!

Her first paycheck came in cash a tidy £150. For her, it felt like a fortune.

Lets count it out, she told the kids, spreading the notes on the table. Rent, food, savings.

Can I get new trainers? Oliver asked quietly. My feet are hurting in the old ones.

Of course, love. And sandals for Poppy. And maybe we look for a proper flat? Tiny, but ours.

A week later they found a onebedroom on the fifth floor of a block of flats. No fresh paint, peeling wallpaper, but it was theirs.

£80 a month, plus utilities, the landlord said gruffly.

Ill take it, Emma said, not even haggling.

Ethel helped with the move, hauling an old couch and two stools.

My dowry for you, she laughed. Youll settle in slowly.

Things at the sports centre went well. Emma arrived early, cleaned the halls, then set to work on the sewing machine fixing jerseys, adding patches, stitching small repairs. The director praised her.

Youre a real find, Emma, he said. Might even get a bonus at the end of the quarter.

One day, while sorting through old performance kits, Emma suggested, Can I try a new design? I have some ideas.

Marina, intrigued, replied, Show me sketches.

That night, after tucking the kids in, Emma drew late into the night. In the morning she brought Marina five designs.

This is brilliant! Marina exclaimed. Mark, look what our seamstress has come up with!

Two weeks later the centre allocated funds for new costumes. Emma was officially named a designer and her salary rose by £50 a week.

Word spread around town.

Did you hear? Emmas got the kids in the sports centre now, women whispered at the grocery store.

And she works there too. The director values her.

And how are they living?

Theyve got a flat, a decent one, not a hole.

The gossip reached Marks family. At Sunday lunch the topic popped up unexpectedly.

Heard your ex has settled well, Margaret drawled, serving salad. Works at the sports centre, the kids go there too.

No way, Mark grimaced. Probably just mops floors.

Not only that, Claire added. My friend saw her at a parent meeting. Emma sews school uniforms on demand. Theres a line for her.

What line? Mark stopped chewing. She didnt know anything!

Then she learned, Claire shrugged. And the kids look neat. You wouldnt say their mums raising them alone.

And shes not even asking for money? Margaret pursed her lips.

Imagine that, no, Claire smirked. Maybe she wasnt as useless as you thought.

Mark slammed his plate down.

Ive got to go. Business.

Back at his house, Mark kept replaying Claires words: Not as useless. Hed spent ten years calling his wife a burden, and now shed turned things around without him.

His phone rang nonstop his exmotherinlaw demanding child support. Shed been silent before, now she was shouting, apparently because Emma had let the world see her progress.

By evening, Mark finally dialled Emmas number.

Hello? Emmas voice was calm.

Hi. How are the kids?

Fine. Oliver has a competition soon. Poppys doing dance.

I heard you settled well, Mark forced out.

Yes, thanks, Emma replied, a hint of irony in her tone. Were managing.

Maybe I could come by? See the kids?

A long pause.

No, Mark. Not now.

But Im their father! he snapped.

The father who didnt care how they lived for two months, Emma cut in. Sorry, I have costume fittings to run.

Three months after the move, Emmas life had steadied. She was now a fulltime designer at the sports centre, taking extra commissions for school uniforms. Her client list kept growing.

Mom, maybe you need an assistant? Oliver asked one afternoon, eyeing the pile of patterns. You cant keep up.

Ill manage, Emma ruffled his hair. But were heading to a seaside resort for New Years. Ive already booked tickets.

Really? Poppy clapped. Will there be snow?

There will. Sleds, ice rink, the whole lot.

That evening Margaret called again.

Emma, how are you? her voice was oddly gentle.

Fine, Margaret.

Listen New Years is near. Maybe let the kids visit us? Granddad and I miss them.

Emma smirked. Three months ago Margaret had thrown them out. Now she missed them.

Sorry, we already have plans. Were going away.

Where? Margaret asked, surprised.

To a resort. Skiing and skating.

A pause.

Emma, maybe make peace? Mark says he overreacted. Maybe give it another try?

No, Margaret. Thats in the past.

But how? Kids without a father

And where was this father when they had nothing to eat? When we slept on the floor in a council flat?

Everyone makes mistakes

I agree. My mistake was letting you treat me as worthless. I wont repeat it.

The next day, outside the sports centre, Emma was shocked to see Mark standing there with a huge bouquet.

Can we talk? he said, holding out the roses.

Why? Emma didnt take them.

Ive realized everything. I was wrong. Maybe we can start over?

Mark, Emma looked straight at him, when you kicked us out I thought Id die of grief. Then I realised it was the best thing that ever happened to me.

What?

For ten years you convinced me I was worthless, that Id be lost without you. And these months have shown me I can do anything work, raise kids, make plans. I dont need a man who doesnt value me.

Mark lowered the bouquet awkwardly.

And the kids? They need a dad

They need a reliable dad. Pay child support on time, see them on a schedule. But we cant go back.

At home the kids found a surprise waiting a new laptop.

This is for your studies, Emma said. And Ive enrolled in fashion design courses. We keep moving forward.

Mom, are you never going back to Dad? Poppy asked that night. Grandma called, said Dad misses you.

No, love. Well live our own life. Dad can visit if he wants.

Im glad, Oliver said suddenly. Before there was always yelling. Now its peaceful.

Emma hugged him.

And itll get even better. I promise.

In spring Emma opened a tiny atelier. She took a loan, bought equipment, and Ethel helped with the kids when Emma stayed late.

Youre amazing, love, the neighbour said. You climbed out of a pit.

You know, Ethel, Emma smiled as she locked up, sometimes you have to lose everything to see what youre capable of.

That night she walked home thinking about the upcoming recital at the sports centre. Her costume designs had just won an award at the regional contest, and the director was keen to expand the collaboration.

Back at the flat, homework, a halffinished dress for Poppy, and the ordinary hum of family life awaited. Emma knew one thing for sure theyd make it, together. Because sometimes the end of an old life is just the start of a better one.

“We’ll Stay Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Freeloading In-Laws and Changed the Locks The intercom didn’t simply ring—it wailed for attention. I glanced at the clock: seven a.m. on a Saturday. The one day I’d planned to catch up on sleep after closing the quarter’s accounts, not entertain guests. On the screen: my husband’s sister, looking ready to storm the Bastille, three wild-haired kids huddled behind her. “Igor!” I barked without picking up. “Your family. Deal with it.” He shuffled out in inside-out shorts, knowing from my tone that my patience with his clan had reached bedrock. While he mumbled into the intercom, I stood in the hall, arms crossed. My flat, my rules. This three-bed in central London was bought with blood, sweat, and a soul-sucking mortgage, years before I even met Igor—having strangers under my roof was the last thing I wanted. The door burst open, and in waltzed the caravan. Svetlana—sorry, let’s make her Susan—laden with bags, didn’t bother to say hello. She nudged past me like I was a sideboard. “Thank God, we made it!” she panted, dumping her bags onto my Italian tile. “Come on, put the kettle on, the kids are starving.” “Susan,” I said, voice calm; Igor’s shoulders hunched. “Mind telling me what’s going on?” “What, Igor didn’t say?” She blinked all innocence. “We’ve got building works! Replacing pipes, tearing up floors, dust everywhere. Impossible to live there. We’ll just stay here a week. You’ve loads of space, don’t you?” I looked at my husband. He stared at the ceiling, bracing for execution. “A week,” I said coolly. “And I mean seven days. You sort your own food. The kids don’t run riot or touch my office. Silence after ten.” Susan rolled her eyes. “Bit strict, aren’t you, Anna? Warder or what? Fine, deal. Where do we sleep? Hopefully not on the floor?” Hell began. A “week” stretched to two. Then three. My pristine, designer apartment turned into a pigsty: muddy shoes piled in the hall, chaos in the kitchen—greasy stains on the counters, crumbs, sticky puddles. Susan ruled the place like she owned it. “Anna, your fridge is empty!” she declared one evening, eyeing the shelves. “The kids need yoghurts, and how about beef for me and Igor? You earn well, you could treat your in-laws.” “You have a card and shops. Knock yourself out. Deliveries are 24/7,” I replied, unmoved. “Stingy,” she muttered, slamming the fridge. But the final straw came when I got home early and caught the kids in my bedroom: oldest bouncing on my expensive mattress, youngest drawing on the wall. With. My. Limited-edition. Lipstick. “Out!” I roared—kids scattered. Susan barely flinched at the redecorated wall and ruined lipstick. “They’re kids! It’ll wash off. Lipstick’s just coloured fat. You’ll buy another one. Oh, by the way—our builders are dragging it out, so we’ll stay until summer! You two must be bored here alone, anyway!” Igor hovered, silent. Useless. I fled to the bathroom before I committed a crime. That night, Susan left her phone on the kitchen table. A notification flashed up: “Susan, next month’s rent received. Tenants love the place—can they extend until August?” Then, “£800 received.” Click. There was no building work. She’d rented out her own place for profit and moved her circus into mine, getting free food, bills, and a passive income. Genius. On my dime. I snapped a photo of the message. For once, my hands were steady. “Igor, kitchen. Now.” I showed him the photo. He went white. “Maybe it’s a mistake?” “Mistake is that you haven’t kicked them out yet,” I said coldly. “Your move: have them gone by noon tomorrow, or you can all go. You, your mother, Susan, the lot.” “But where will they go?” “Don’t care. Under a bridge or the Ritz, if they can swing it.” The next morning Susan blithely announced she was “popping out for some lovely boots” (presumably with her rental money), leaving the kids with Igor. “Take the kids to the park. For a long time,” I told him. He questioned, I insisted. “I’m getting rid of some parasites.” Once they’d gone, I called a locksmith. And then the local bobby. Game over—clear-out begins. When Igor returned, the locks were changed and their stuff—crammed in five giant bin bags—was on the landing. By the time Susan waltzed back, loaded with shopping, I waited at the door with the constable. She shrieked, raged, tried to get past—“We have nowhere to live! I’ve got children!”—but the officer blocked her. She threatened to call Igor. I told her to ring. No answer. “Where’s your proof of residence?” the copper asked. “You don’t live here. Time to collect your things.” “Oh, and say hi to Marina,” I added. “Hope your tenants extend until August—otherwise, you’ll have to turf them out.” Susan paled. I continued, each word like a whip crack: “Take your bags and go. So help me, if I see you or your kids anywhere near my street again, I’ll call the tax man—undeclared rental income is a crime. And I’ll report a stolen ring. The police might find it in your bags.” The ring was in my safe, but she didn’t know that. She quivered with rage. “You’re vile, Anna. God will judge you.” “God’s busy. And now, so am I—with my flat, finally all to myself.” When the lift doors closed on Susan, her shopping, and her busted little scheme, I felt only relief. Later, Igor came home, childless, guilt-ridden. “She screamed a lot,” he muttered. “I don’t care what rats shriek as they’re thrown off a ship,” I replied, sipping fresh coffee in silence, my kitchen spotless, fridge full of food I’d actually bought. “Did you know about the rental?” I asked. “No! Honestly, I didn’t!” “If you had, would you have told me?” He didn’t answer. “One more stunt from your family, and your suitcase will be next to theirs,” I finished. He nodded, nervously. He knew I wasn’t kidding. I took another sip. The coffee was perfect: hot, strong, and best of all, drunk in the peace and quiet of my own, reclaimed home. Long live the queen—crown fits just fine.

019

Someone Else’s Bride Valery was in high demand. He never advertised in newspapers or on TV, but his name and phone number were passed around by word of mouth—the grapevine did all the work. Need a host for a concert? No problem! Birthday party or wedding? Excellent! He’d even once presided over a kindergarten graduation, winning the hearts of both the children and their mums. It all began simply enough. A close mate got married, but the emcee they’d booked in advance didn’t show up—turns out he’d gone on a bender. With no time to find anyone else, Valery grabbed the microphone. At school he’d taken part in amateur dramatics, joined the school theatre club, and at university he was always a star of Open Mic Night and student comedy contests. Impromptu hosting suited him, and right there, in the function hall, two people asked if he could run their events as well. After graduating, Valery got a job at one of the city’s research institutions earning next to nothing. His first fees as an entertainer inspired him—he took on every event, enjoying not only the financial boost but also a great sense of satisfaction. Soon his earnings from hosting outstripped his research salary by nearly tenfold. After a year, Valery took the plunge: he left the institute, used his savings to buy quality equipment, registered as self-employed, and officially went into show business. He started taking singing lessons, too—he already had a voice and an ear for music. Soon he was a singing host, performing as a lounge singer three nights a week at a posh restaurant. Now, approaching 30, Valery was good-looking, fairly well off, and had built a reputation as a solid singer, DJ, and top-notch host who could save any party. He wasn’t married—why bother? Women flocked to him; any girl he fancied was up for it. But his friends were settling down and having kids, and gradually Valery began to yearn for quiet, family happiness. Problem was, there was nobody he wanted it with! The easy girls were fine for a fling, but he longed for something once and for all, for life. “You need to meet someone young, raise her ‘just right,’ and then marry her when she turns 18. That’s the ideal wife right there!” he half-joked. He started taking on bookings for school proms, hoping to spot his future partner. But modern girls disappointed him—they weren’t what he’d imagined. Still, Valery wasn’t discouraged. He kept an eye on the young ones, as he jokingly put it, “hunting rare game.” That’s when fate decided to have a laugh at my cousin’s expense. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A woman rang up, said she’d got his details from friends: “We need a host for a wedding. Are you free June 17th? Wonderful! Can we meet?” They met. And right then, according to Valery, he understood the saying “the ground slipped from under my feet.” The woman, who introduced herself as Christina, was dazzling—he’d never seen anyone quite like her up close. She was articulate, intelligent, all business, listed exactly what was needed. Valery found himself unable to look away. Someone was very lucky indeed—not only was she beautiful, she was obviously clever too. A rare combination! At first glance she seemed around 25, maybe a little older. But in conversation she mentioned she’d been in the Young Socialists, so she had to be at least 40! They sorted out all the details, came to an agreement, and drew up a contract, though Christina protested: “No need, I trust you—you come highly recommended!” Valery always worked with contracts, making sure both he and his clients stuck rigidly to the terms. He insisted: “I need to file paperwork for tax—can’t have any problems.” In truth, he just wanted physical proof that Christina really existed, that this wasn’t a dream. Her phone pinged—a message. “Oh, my fiancé’s here to pick me up. Do you need a lift?” Valery said no but followed her out to the car park. He always did this if the couple arrived separately, to size up how they acted around each other. But this time, jealousy rather than curiosity drove him. The groom surprised him—he’d pictured a man of about forty, to match the bride. But out of the car bounced a guy clearly younger than himself. “Christina, everything alright?” She smiled, as if to say, “Why wouldn’t it be?” and got into the car. The groom turned to Valery: “You’re the one hosting our wedding? Great, Slava’s told me you’re the best,” he said, giving Valery a handshake. “Sorry, forgot to introduce myself—Christina will scold me later. I’m Robert, the groom.” More than anything, Valery wanted to punch this “Robert, the groom,” and wipe that smug smile off his face, but instead he just shook his hand. “Valery. Nice to meet you.” From that moment, Valery lost all peace and sleep. He obsessed over any excuse to call Christina, to hear her voice, to meet her again. The wedding day loomed closer and Valery thought he was losing his mind. His one confidant needled him: “Whatever happened to the schoolgirls you were going to raise into ideal wives?” Valery just waved him off: “Forget that. Christina’s perfect—she’s all I want now!” “Then tell her,” his friend shrugged, but got a sharp reply: “Are you mad? She’s getting married, so she must love him. What would she want with me and my daft feelings?” Sometimes Robert would drop by, beaming: “Christina asked me to drop this off for you…” Valery hated him in those moments, barely able to hold back a retort. He even considered backing out of the wedding, reputation be damned—but that would mean never seeing Christina again. He caved in cowardly fear. Two days before the wedding, Christina dropped round to Valery’s flat—she said, “just to polish the script, make sure everything’s perfect.” His office was undergoing renovations, so their meeting moved to his home. They chatted about nothing important, laughed, both on top form. Script done, Valery poured a glass of prosecco for a toast. “To the perfect wedding.” Christina laughed: “Why not!” She was radiant, and Valery, buoyed by bubbles, kissed her. And, to his shock, she kissed him back. The world turned upside down. Valery woke with a start. He looked around—had he imagined the best night of his life? No sight of Christina, but her perfume lingered on a pillow. So it was real… In turmoil, he called her. “Hey…” She answered brightly: “Hi! How are you? Sorry I ducked out early, but you know how it is—the wedding’s tomorrow!” “So…the wedding’s still on?” he croaked. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s grand!” Was she really so cynical? How could she look her groom in the eye after last night? Valery was torn—should he ruin the wedding? Did he even want such a heartless woman? Answer: Yes. Any form of her. Next day, he arrived at the venue early. The decorators were finishing up, throwing him flirty glances. Then— He couldn’t believe it—Christina came up to him. “Hi. I ran off straight after the ceremony—just wanted to see you,” she flashed a dazzling smile. “You alright, Valery?” “I don’t get it,” he stammered. “So, the ceremony’s over? Then you legged it?” “Yeah, silly. Why ride around with the kids when I could spend time with you? Or aren’t you happy to see me?” “Wait, what kids? Aren’t you the bride?” Christina stared at him for a few seconds, then burst out laughing. It was a pure, joyful sound, and Valery couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! My daughter Kiera is the bride—she’s at university in Leeds, just flew in yesterday,” she stopped laughing, “Did you think I was the bride? And that I’d sleep around two nights before my wedding? Charming.” Only then did it dawn on Valery—Christina never once said “I” or “we”—always “the bride and groom.” And Robert never called her “Kiera,” only “Christina” and always formally. How had he not noticed? He felt foolish… and then he finally asked the real question: “And you? Are you… free?” She nodded. He blurted out: “Marry me! Please…” The wedding was stunning, the host outdid himself, the guests were thrilled. The young couple thanked Valery: “Thank you so much! We’ve no idea how to repay you for such an amazing evening.” “I’ll thank him myself,” said Christina, joining them. “You two go on—the limo’s waiting. I’ll keep an eye on things here.” The news—Valery marrying a woman nine years his senior—spread quickly among the family. People were wary at first, but after meeting the bride everyone agreed: “How could you not fall for someone like that?” Kiera and Christina both gave birth within a fortnight of each other.