Our daughter-in-law is a predator with a sweet smile. She’s waiting for us to pass away so she can snatch up the house.
Believe me, it pains me to write these words. Not because I want to tarnish anyone in the family, but because I’m at a loss as to how it came to this: sitting at the kitchen table, clutching an old embroidered cushion, and whispering to my husband that we might just leave the house… to the church. Yes, you heard right—not to our son or grandchildren, but to a church. Because otherwise, this home that we poured our sweat, fears, and hopes into will end up with a woman who entered our lives like a thief in the night—silent, confident, and with a calculated plan.
My name is Vera Smith, I’m 67 years old, and I live with my husband in the heart of Oxford in a spacious three-bedroom house, which we bought 22 years ago. We sold our holiday home back then, put aside our last savings, took out a loan—every inch of this house is steeped in our hard work and dreams. We brought up our son, dreamed of the day he’d bring home a bride—kind, smart, reliable. Someone who would become part of both home and heart. But things went differently.
Five years ago, Stan—our only son—introduced Fiona to us for the first time. Right then, I sensed she was an outsider. Not because of her character, taste, or views. Simply, she didn’t fit. Loud, with an arrogant smile. But most importantly—the eyes. They held no respect or sincerity. Just calculated intentions and fake friendliness.
Stan, like he was mesmerized, clung to her every word. She spoke, and he’d melt. She suggested marriage—off he went to the registrar office. When I tried to reason that it was too soon, that they needed time to know each other—he got upset. Said he was in love. And I… kept quiet. Didn’t want to lose my son.
After the wedding, they rented a flat. We didn’t interfere, helped where we could—with money, groceries, gifts. But with every visit, Fiona grew bolder. Complaints, taunts, hints. And my Stan? He’d sit there, smiling. As if he truly believed his wife was a treasure.
Last Christmas, an incident occurred that still sits in my throat like a stone. We invited them for dinner. I prepared Stan’s favorite dishes—roast duck with apples, potato salad, homemade pies. Aimed for a cozy, homely atmosphere. During dinner, I casually suggested:
— Have you thought about getting your own place? While you’re young, you could take out a mortgage. We’d help.
Fiona, without even flinching, said:
— Why bother? You’ve got a house. It’ll be ours eventually.
It felt like a cold knife stabbed my heart. I looked at her, and in front of me was not a future mother of my grandchildren, but a shark with lipstick. The most terrifying part was that Stan said nothing. Not a word! Just brushed it off and laughed.
After they left, I sat for a long time with my husband, Boris, in the kitchen. Usually calm and reserved, he said for the first time:
— This won’t do. We don’t owe them anything.
And that was when we first spoke about a will. We decided that if things continued like this, the house would go to the church we’ve lived near all our lives. Not out of spite, but because we don’t want the place we poured our hearts into to end up with someone who has a calculator for a heart.
All our lives, we dreamed of passing the house to our son, where the laughter of grandchildren would echo, where family traditions would be preserved. But not like this.
I ponder: should I tell Stan everything directly? But if I do, I risk breaking our relationship. And if I don’t, I’ll spend every day watching Fiona rub her hands, waiting for us to die. It pains me, it’s frustrating.
I can only hope for a miracle—that he opens his eyes and sees how he’s being played. But every day that hope dims. He’s like a boy enchanted by an older woman. And she… manipulates him as she pleases.
Perhaps some of you have been in a similar situation? Could anyone advise what to do? My heart breaks seeing my own son becoming a shadow of himself… for someone who waits for our eyes to close—not in despair, but to clear her path to “inheritance.”
Please advise. Before it’s too late. While we’re still here.
