Our daughter-in-law is a predator with a sweet smile. She’s waiting for our demise to seize the house.
It pains me to write these lines. Not because I want to disparage someone in my family, but because I can’t fathom how it came to this: sitting in our kitchen, clutching my old embroidered cushion, whispering to my husband that we will most likely leave our house to… the church. Yes, you heard right—not to our son, not to our grandchildren, but to the church. Because otherwise, this home, which we worked so hard to acquire, will end up with the woman who entered our lives like a thief in the night—quietly, confidently, and with a premeditated plan.
My name is Vera Johnston, I am 67, and live with my husband in a spacious flat in the heart of Bath, which we purchased 22 years ago. Back then, we sold our cottage, put aside our last savings, took a loan—every square foot of this place is filled with our sweat, fears, and hopes. We raised our son, dreamt of the day he would bring home a kind, smart, dependable bride. Someone who’d enter not just the house but our hearts, too. But it didn’t turn out that way.
Five years ago, Stan—our only son—brought Emma home for the first time. Instantly, I felt it: this girl was not the right fit. Not her personality, taste, or gaze. She just didn’t belong. Loud, brash, with a condescending grin. But most of all, her eyes—devoid of respect and sincerity, only showing calculated intentions and false pleasantries.
Stan was mesmerised, hanging on to her every word. When she suggested getting married, he dashed to the registry office. At my suggestion that they wait and get to know each other better, he took offense. He claimed to be in love. And I… I stayed silent, not wanting to lose my son.
After the wedding, they rented a flat. We stayed out of their affairs, helping when we could—with money, groceries, gifts. But with each visit, Emma dared more. Criticisms, sneers, insinuations. And my Stan? He sat smiling, seemingly believing his wife was pure gold.
Last Christmas, something that still chokes me up happened. We invited them to dinner. I prepared Stan’s favourite dishes—duck with apples, English salad, homemade pies. I wanted them to feel cozy and loved. During dinner, I casually mentioned, “Have you thought about getting your own place? While you’re young, you could get a mortgage. We’d help.”
Emma, without the slightest hesitation, replied, “Why bother? You’ve got a house. It’ll be ours anyway.”
Everything inside me froze, like a cold knife through the heart. I looked at her and saw not the mother of my future grandchildren, but a shark in lipstick. And the most distressing part—Stan said nothing. Not a word! He just waved it off and laughed.
After they left, I sat with Boris, my husband, in the kitchen for a long time. Usually calm and collected, for the first time in his life he said:
“We owe them nothing. This won’t do.”
That’s when we first discussed the will. We decided: if things continue this way, the house will go to the church near which we’ve spent almost our entire lives. Not out of spite, but because we can’t bear to hand this place, where we’ve invested our souls, to a woman whose heart is a calculator.
All our lives we dreamt of passing on the house to Stan, a place where our grandchildren’s laughter would echo, where family traditions would be preserved. But not at this cost.
I wonder whether to tell Stan the truth. But if I do, I’ll ruin our relationship. And if I don’t, I have to endure every day as Emma bides her time, waiting for our demise. It’s unbearable and it hurts.
I hold onto the hope for a miracle—that he will see the light. That he’ll realize how he’s being manipulated. But each day, that hope dwindles. He acts like a boy captivated by an older woman. And she… she plays him like a puppet.
Has anyone been in a similar situation? Can anyone offer advice? My heart breaks seeing my own son become a shadow of himself… all for the sake of someone waiting for us to clear the path to “inheritance.”
Please, share your wisdom. While there’s still time. While we’re still here.
