Who bought the crib, the changing table, the special food? Your mother just quietly goes over and buys it. Your wife never says please or thank you. It’s just expected of you.
He was silent for a long time. “I didn’t realize you felt we were taking advantage of you,” he finally said.
“It’s not about feeling exploited, Samuel. It’s about respect. It’s about watching your wife let your mother mess with her.”
She doesn’t let herself be pressured.
“Yesterday she literally pushed her to the ground.”
Samuel winced. “That was an accident.”
“No, son. That was the result of eight years of your wife treating your mother like she didn’t belong here. Yesterday was the first time it got physical.” I stood up. “I want you to think about something. If someone treated your son the way Everly treats Martha, how would you handle it?”
His arms wrapped protectively around the baby. “I would never let anyone hurt him.”
“Then why do you let your wife hurt your mother?”
I left him with that question. As I walked down the hall, I heard Everly on the phone, her tone lively and confident.
“Oh, it’s perfect,” she said. “We have the whole house to ourselves. The old woman lives upstairs most of the time now, and Steven is completely manageable… Why should we move? Free housing, free food, built-in babysitting. It’s like winning the lottery… Believe me, they’re not going anywhere. Martha’s too exhausted, and Steven is too easily influenced. By the time they realize what’s happening, we’ll have everything exactly the way we want it.”
I stood frozen, listening to my daughter-in-law talk about our family as if we were victims in a long-running scam. This wasn’t the stress of a new mother. This was Everly revealing her true colors, confident that there would be no consequences.
Over the next few days, I paid more attention to my attention. On Thursday, I searched my old filing cabinet in the basement for insurance papers and found something that terrified me: a stack of utility bills, all for our address, all in Everly’s name. At the bottom was a request to forward mail from six months ago, which would have meant that all mail for our address would first be in her name.
I showed it to Martha. Her face turned pale. “Steven, what does this mean?”
“I think,” I said grimly, “she’s trying to get legal residency. To claim this as her primary residence.”
She’s trying to take our house.
At that moment, Everly appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding the baby. “Is everything okay?” she asked in a sweet, concerned voice.
I held up the stack of papers. “Everly, why are our utility bills in your name?”
Her mask dropped for a moment. I saw a calculating look in her eyes. Then she laughed. “Oh, that. There was a mix-up with the billing company. I temporarily transferred them to my name to ensure they were paid on time. I just wanted to let you know.”
Her explanation for forwarding the mail was equally glib and dismissive.
“It’s our house, Everly,” I said.
She looked at me with what I can only describe as pity. “Of course. But we live here too, Steven. We do our part.”
Martha spoke up. “What’s your contribution, Everly?”
“I take care of the baby. I handle the housework. I handle the practical matters that you and Steven clearly don’t have time for anymore.” The condescension was unmistakable.
“We’ve been running our business for over forty years,” I said.
