When I let my daughter and her husband move into my home, I thought I was doing something kind—something loving. I never imagined that trusting them would be the thing that cost me the most.
I’m 67, retired, and ever since my husband passed away five years ago, life had been peaceful. Not boring. Not lonely. Just quiet and full of little joys—my garden, my book club, and Winston, my fluffy gray tabby who followed me like a little shadow.

Then my daughter Lisa called.
“Mom, Nick and I were wondering… could we stay with you for a while? Just until we save enough for a down payment. We’d help around the house and—”
I missed her. I missed the sound of laughter in the halls, the clinking of forks during dinner, the late-night talks in the kitchen. So of course, I said yes.

At first, it felt nice. Lisa and I cooked meals together again, and I loved having her close. But Nick? Nick always rubbed me the wrong way.
He was polite, yes. Always with that too-perfect smile. But he felt… slick. Like someone who practiced compliments in the mirror. He didn’t have a real job. He said he worked in “investment consulting,” which sounded more like “I jump on every internet money scheme that pops up.”

Nick always had new “business ideas.”
One night, he tapped on the glass of my husband’s vintage record case. “Ever thought about selling this old stuff?” he asked. “That antique furniture too—might fetch good money.”
I turned around from the sink and gave him a polite smile, even though I was annoyed. “That stuff belonged to my husband. It’s not for sale.”
He chuckled. “Just saying. It could help with bills, y’know.”