Our daughter-in-law is a predator with a sweet smile. She’s waiting for us to pass away to claim the house.
Believe me, it pains me to write these words. Not because I want to disparage anyone in my family, but because I can’t understand how it came to this: sitting in the kitchen, clutching my old embroidered cushion to my chest, whispering to my husband that we’ll probably leave the house… to the church. Yes, you heard right—not to our son, not to our grandchildren, but to the church. Because otherwise, this house, built with our own hands, will go to a woman who entered our lives like a thief in the night—quietly, confidently, and with a carefully crafted plan.
My name is Vera Smith, I’m 67 years old, and I live with my husband in a spacious three-bedroom house in the heart of Winchester. We bought it 22 years ago by selling our cottage, saving our last reserves, and taking out a loan—every square foot of this house is steeped in sweat, fears, and hopes. We raised our son, dreaming of the day he would bring home a fiancée—kind, intelligent, dependable. Someone who would enter not only through the door but also into our hearts. However, things turned out differently.
Five years ago, Stan—our only son—introduced us to Emily for the first time. Instantly, I sensed that this girl was an outsider. It wasn’t about her character, tastes, or looks. It was something more profound. She just didn’t fit. She was loud, overbearing, and wore a condescending smile. But most importantly, her eyes. They had no respect, no genuineness—just calculated cunning and fake friendliness.
Stan was spellbound by her every word. She spoke, and he melted. When she suggested marriage, he rushed to the registry office. I tried to reason with him, saying it was too soon and they needed to get to know each other, but he got offended, stating that he was in love. So, I kept quiet. I didn’t want to lose my son.
After their wedding, they rented a flat. We didn’t interfere, helping them as much as we could—with money, groceries, and gifts. But with every visit, Emily became increasingly bold. Snide comments, mockery, and innuendos followed. And my Stan? He sat there smiling. As if he genuinely believed that his wife was a gem.
And last Christmas, something happened that still leaves me with a lump in my throat. We invited them over for dinner. I made Stan’s favorite dishes—roast duck with apples, a hearty salad, homemade pies. I wanted the evening to be cozy and homey. During dinner, I casually mentioned:
— Have you thought about getting your own place? You’re young; you could get a mortgage. We’ll help.
Emily, unfazed, replied:
— Why bother? You have this house, and it will come to us eventually.
It felt like a cold knife piercing my heart. I looked at her, and I saw not just a daughter-in-law, not the future mother of my grandchildren, but a shark in lipstick. The scariest part was that Stan said nothing. Not a word! He just laughed it off.
After they left, I sat in the kitchen for a long time with John, my husband. Usually calm and composed, he said for the first time in his life:
— This won’t do. We owe them nothing.
That’s when we first discussed the will. We decided that if things continued like this, the house would go to the church where we’ve spent most of our lives—not out of spite, but because we don’t want the place, filled with our soul, to go to a woman with a heart like a calculator.
Our whole life, we dreamed of passing the house to our son, where the laughter of our grandchildren would echo, where family traditions would be cherished. But not at this price.
I wonder if I should confront Stan directly. But if I do, I might ruin our relationship. If I don’t, I’ll live each day knowing Emily is biding her time, waiting for us to die. It’s painful and upsetting.
I hope for a miracle—that Stan sees the truth and understands how he’s being played. But each day, that hope fades. He behaves like a boy infatuated with an older woman, and she twists him around her finger as she pleases.
Has anyone been in a similar situation? Can you advise me on what to do? It’s heartbreaking watching my own son become a shadow of himself… for someone waiting expectantly for the day I close my eyes, not out of grief, but to clear her path to the “inheritance.”
Please, someone advise us before it’s too late, while we’re still here.
