Betrayed and Robbed: How My Mother-in-Law and Sister-in-Law Stole My Children’s Future
I used to believe family was a sanctuary—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 ruin our lives; they stole my children’s chance at a happy future. And they did it with my own husband’s full approval.
When David still had a decent job, he lavished his “precious” mother and sister with endless support:
—”Mum, the utilities are overdue…”
—”Son, we’ve no money for food…”
—”David, I can’t even fill the car…”
—”Me and Emily want theatre tickets, won’t you treat us?”
He ran to them like an obedient dog, always with cash in hand, guilt in his smile. At first, I stayed quiet. Then I tried reasoning. Eventually, I gave up—especially after my second maternity leave, when he was made redundant.
Instead of searching for work—even something modest—David spent days sprawled on the sofa, complaining of “injustice,” refusing even temporary jobs. His skills were “too superior” for what was offered, he claimed.
I returned to work early, leaving the children with him. Within a week, the calls began—not to him, but to me. His mother and sister had found a “new supplier” for their demands.
I snapped. Told them if they needed money, they could work. The neck they’d ridden all their lives was tired. Of course, they whined to David. And he—instead of siding with me—let them move in.
Yes, just like that. Came home from work to find his mother and sister with suitcases. They’d rented out their flat for “income,” as his mother put it. Now they’d live with us—three extra mouths on my wages. My opinion? Unasked for.
I hadn’t even taken off my boots when his mother chirped, “Oh, you’re back! Where’s dinner?”
David took my coat, murmuring, “Darling, don’t be cross. Mum and Em are in a tight spot—it’s just for a while. We can’t abandon them, can we?”
A while. I walked into the kitchen to chaos. The children smeared in chocolate, grime everywhere, pots scraped bare, dishes piled high. My one-year-old had been given an entire bar—no one bothered to wipe his hands. Rage burned through me.
Everyone felt my wrath. Result? Mother-in-law peeled potatoes; her daughter scrubbed plates. If they wanted to live under my roof, they’d pull their weight. I was no maid or cook. Let them earn their keep.
Yet weeks passed, and our “guests” showed no sign of leaving. Their rental money vanished in days, then the begging started. Refuse, and hysterics followed—shouting, guilt-trips. Peace fled our home.
On my birthday, Emily didn’t even wish me well. His mother mumbled something half-hearted. We left for my parents’ house. There, I found warmth—hugs, Mum’s knitted jumper, and… a lottery ticket.
A childish tradition. I’d loved the lottery as a girl. Settling my daughter on my lap, I tuned in, scratching off numbers. Then—a win. A real one! We shrieked, dizzy with joy. David gaped; his mother sneered, “Don’t celebrate yet. Probably a mistake.”
I double-checked. No mistake. Not a fortune, but enough for private school for our eldest, a nursery for the youngest. That night, I lay awake, dreaming of the life we’d build.
By morning—silence. Too quiet. Their rooms stood empty. Some of David’s things were gone. So was the ticket.
They’d fled. Taken the money. Stolen it.
Years have passed. The children and I live alone now. David lost everything—gambled, drank, squandered on holidays. His mother’s in rehab. Emily’s child was born gravely ill. David’s liver is failing.
And me? In my flat. With my girls. Warmth in my heart. No betrayal left.
Sometimes I wonder: perhaps it’s for the best. They stole the money. But not my strength. Not my love. Not my dignity.
