My DIL and son KICKED ME OUT of my own house.
I’m 65, and for 15 years, I lived alone in the little home my late husband Harold and I built together. Every corner of it held him — the shed with his tools, the porch swing he hung, the lilac bush he planted for our anniversary. After he died, the house was my comfort, my anchor.
My son Thomas stayed with me after his death, helping me with my weak health. Arthritis and lung trouble made daily life harder, but Thomas promised me: “Mom, I’ll never leave you.”
Then Thomas met Vanessa. At first, she was charming, insisting they stay with me so I “wouldn’t be alone.” I believed her. But soon, her kindness turned to quiet cruelty.
She moved my dishes to the highest shelves, dragged my laundry to the basement stairs I couldn’t climb, threw out my special chair that eased my hips. She found ways to make my every day harder. And therapy? If Thomas couldn’t take me, she always had excuses — “I have plans,” “I’m tired,” “Call a cab.”
In front of Thomas, she was perfect — all sweet smiles and gentle tones. Behind his back, she chipped away at me until he started to believe her lies. Then one evening, she smiled and said: “Maybe it’s time you thought about a nursing home?”
I felt Harold’s sweater in my lap that night, tears soaking into it. I knew where this was heading.
And sure enough, days later, I woke to find my bags packed. Thomas stood in the doorway, guilt written on his face. “Mom, it’s for the best. They’ll take better care of you there.”
I begged him, clutched at his arm, but he pulled away. Vanessa closed the door behind me with a satisfied smirk. Just like that, I was out of my own home.
Rebecca, my daughter, found out when the nursing home called. She flew in immediately. The very next morning, she marched into my house.
Vanessa froze when Rebecca handed her an envelope.
It was the deed.
See, years ago, Harold and I had quietly placed the house in Rebecca’s name for safekeeping. My arthritis and medical debt made us worry someone could try to take it someday. We thought Thomas was too young at the time to handle the responsibility, so Harold said: “Rebecca is steady. If anything happens, she’ll protect you.”
For 15 years, Rebecca never breathed a word. Until now.
Vanessa’s smirk vanished when Rebecca said calmly:
“Pack your things. This house doesn’t belong to you. Or to Thomas. It belongs to me. And my mother is coming home.”
Vanessa sputtered, Thomas stared at the floor, but it didn’t matter. Within an hour, Rebecca had me back on the porch swing Harold once hung, tears of relief streaming down my face.
Vanessa wanted to erase me. Instead, she erased herself.
And as for Thomas… he learned the hard way that betraying your mother has a price.