When my daughter-in-law needed help, I moved in without a second thought — she was family. But one quiet afternoon, I overheard something that changed my perception of her.
When Miranda slipped, fell down the stairs, and broke her leg, I didn’t hesitate to offer help.
She was my daughter-in-law (DIL) after all. Married to my only child, Richard.
It seemed natural to step in while she healed.
“I’ve got her,” I told Richard when he started talking about hiring a part-time nurse.
“She’s family. I’ll take care of everything.”
He looked uncertain. “Mom, it’s going to be a lot.
She’s in a full cast. The bathroom alone—”
“I raised you and your father at the same time when he got sick. I think I can handle one pregnant woman with a bum leg.”
I honestly didn’t mind, since I’m retired and spend most of my time at home doing nothing important.
So, that settled it.
Richard’s job in software consulting often took him out of town during the week, and that month was especially busy.
So I moved into their guest room and took over everything — meals, laundry, sponge baths, medications, late-night cravings, the works.
I helped my DIL with everything.
I mean, I spoon-fed her when she was too tired to sit up, rubbed her swollen feet, and even helped her brush her teeth on some nights.
Miranda, always so soft-spoken and sweet, seemed genuinely grateful at first.
“You’re a literal angel,” she said once while I helped her into the tub, keeping her cast leg safely perched outside.
I smiled.
We laughed, and in those early days, I believed we were forming a bond.
But the cracks began to show about two weeks in.
They were little things at first.
I’d walk in with fresh towels and find her smirking at something on her phone, only to lock the screen the moment she saw me.
Her moods would swing wildly: sweet as pie one minute, then snapping at me the next for bringing the wrong flavor of yogurt or fluffing the pillow “too aggressively.”
Still, I chalked it up to the pain meds.
Until one Friday morning, when I overheard her speaking from her bedroom.
That day, I went to the store and came back earlier than usual, when I heard her cheerful, low, and giggly voice while walking in the hallway.
“YES, SWEETIE. The old hag went out to buy me treats.
I can’t wait until I’m healed so I can get away from that old witch and her precious little son and finally see you.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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