Our daughter-in-law is a predator with a pink smile. She’s waiting for us to die so she can snatch our flat.
Believe me, it pains me to write these words. Not because I wish to slander anyone in the family, but because I don’t even understand how it’s come to this. Here I sit at the kitchen table, clutching my old embroidered cushion to my chest, whispering to my husband that we’ll likely leave our flat… to the church. Yes, you heard right—not to our son, not to our grandchildren, but to the parish. Because if we don’t, this home, built with our sweat and tears, will go to a woman who slipped into our lives like a thief in the night—quiet, confident, and with a plan already set.
My name is Margaret Whitmore. I’m 67, and my husband and I live in a spacious three-bedroom flat in the heart of London, which we bought 22 years ago. Back then, we sold our countryside cottage, drained our savings, and took out a loan—every inch of this place is soaked in hard work, fear, and hope. We raised our son here, dreaming of the day he’d bring home a wife—kind, intelligent, dependable. Someone who’d step not just over the threshold but into our hearts. But things turned out differently.
Five years ago, James—our only son—brought home Emma for the first time. I knew right away she didn’t belong. Not because of her personality, her tastes, or her opinions, but in her very essence. She didn’t fit. Loud, brash, with a smug little smile. But the worst part? Her eyes. No respect, no warmth—just cold calculation beneath a thin veneer of politeness.
James, spellbound, hung on her every word. Whatever she said, he melted. When she suggested marriage, he raced to the registry office. When I pleaded with him to wait, to get to know her better, he took offence. Said he was in love. And I… I stayed quiet. I didn’t want to lose him.
After the wedding, they rented a flat. We kept our distance but helped where we could—money, groceries, gifts. Yet with every visit, Emma grew bolder. Sly remarks, mocking jabs, pointed hints. And James? He just sat there, grinning like she was pure gold.
Then, last Christmas, something happened that still sticks in my throat. We invited them over for dinner. I cooked James’s favourites—roast duck with apples, prawn cocktail, homemade mince pies. Wanted it to feel like home. And over the meal, I said, as casually as I could:
«Maybe you should think about buying your own place? You’re young—you could get a mortgage. We’d help.»
Emma didn’t even blink before replying:
«Why bother? You’ve got this flat. It’ll be ours eventually.»
My stomach turned to ice. Like a knife straight through my heart. I looked at her, and all I saw wasn’t a daughter-in-law, not the mother of my future grandchildren—but a shark in lipstick. And the worst part? James said nothing. Not a word! Just laughed it off.
After they left, I sat with my husband, George, in the kitchen for hours. He’s usually calm, unshakable—but that night, for the first time, he said:
«This isn’t right. We owe them nothing.»
That’s when we first talked about changing the will. We decided: if this carries on, the flat goes to St. Mary’s, the church we’ve attended all our lives. Not out of spite. But because we won’t let a home we poured our souls into fall into the hands of a woman whose heart runs on a calculator.
All our lives, we dreamed of passing this house to our son, of hearing grandchildren’s laughter in these rooms, of keeping our family’s traditions alive. But not at this price.
Should I tell James outright? If I do, I’ll lose him. If I don’t, I’ll spend every day knowing Emma’s rubbing her hands together, waiting for us to die. It aches. It humiliates.
I keep hoping for a miracle—that he’ll wake up. That he’ll see how she’s playing him. But with each passing day, that hope fades. He’s like a boy, bewitched by a grown woman. And she… she’s pulling his strings.
Has anyone else been through this? Any advice? My heart’s breaking, watching my son fade into a shadow of himself… all for someone who’s counting the days until we’re gone—not in grief, but to clear her path to our home.
Please, tell me what to do. Before it’s too late. While we’re still here.