But on day four, I got a text from my daughter that made my heart freeze.
It said: “Mom, can you please pick us up? We’re not allowed in the pool. We haven’t eaten much. And Auntie took our money.”
I blinked. Reread it. Stood there in the middle of the grocery store, phone clutched like it burned.
I called her right away. She whispered, “I had to sneak the phone into the bathroom. She makes us put them in the laundry room all day.”
I asked her to explain, and she started crying quietly.
“She said the pool is just for their family, not guests. She only let us swim the first afternoon when she took a photo for Facebook. And she said she ‘needed to hold onto the money so it wouldn’t get lost.’”
“What have you been eating?” I asked, trying to keep calm.
“Toast,” she said. “Mostly toast. Sometimes rice. She says snacks are for weekends only.”
At that point, I drove straight home, left the frozen food in the car, and headed for her house.
It’s almost an hour away, and I was shaking the entire drive. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Maybe there was a misunderstanding. Maybe my kids were being dramatic. But I also know my daughter. She doesn’t lie like that.
When I pulled into the long driveway, I could see them both sitting on the porch swing, bags packed. No one else in sight.
They ran to the car before I even parked fully. My son’s face was blotchy. I opened the back door and asked, “Did you tell her I was coming?”
“No,” my daughter said. “She’s taking a nap.”
I wasn’t sure whether to knock or not. But I figured no drama in front of the kids. Just leave. We could sort it out later.
That evening, after baths and dinner—real dinner—they opened up more.
My son said, “Her daughter wouldn’t let me play the PlayStation unless I gave her my whole $150. She said that’s the rule—one-time fee.”
My daughter added, “And if we ever said anything, she’d go cry to her mom and say we were being mean.”
“She called us ‘the charity kids,’” my son whispered.
That was it. I texted my SIL. Calmly, at first. I said, “Hey, I think there was some miscommunication. The kids didn’t feel very welcome, and I’m a bit shocked about the money situation. Can we talk?”
Her reply came quick. Cold.
“Excuse me? I opened my home to your children. They’re ungrateful and spoiled. My daughter was kind enough to share her space. If anything, you owe us for food and utilities.”
I nearly threw my phone.
I didn’t respond right away. I wanted to see how the kids were doing first. But what really lit a fire under me? Was when her daughter posted a TikTok of my kids swimming, with a caption like, “Teaching the peasants how to float lol.”
I kept it. Saved it, along with screenshots of the messages, including my SIL saying she “confiscated” the money for “safe keeping.”
I didn’t blast her online. That’s not my style. But I did tell my husband—her brother.
He was livid. He’s not the type to get loud, but I’ve seen that vein in his forehead pop just once before, when our landlord tried to keep our deposit for a broken oven.
He called her and said, “You have until tomorrow to return every cent or we’re going legal.”
She laughed. Laughed. Said, “You’re gonna sue your own family over kids being bored?”
That’s when he said, “You messed with the wrong kids.”
What she didn’t know was that our cousin, Darvin, is a local police officer. And another friend of ours is a family lawyer.
I didn’t want to press charges. Truly. I wanted her to just own up, say sorry, maybe teach her daughter that bullying isn’t cute.
But she doubled down. Told her Facebook friends we were “thieves” who used her house like a daycare and left “damaged goods behind.”
So I posted one polite, direct comment.
“Hey Nora, I think you forgot to mention how you took $450 from three kids, starved them, and told your daughter to record them for mockery. Want me to share the messages and video?”
Silence.
Then the damage control began. She deleted the post. Blocked me. But mutual friends messaged. “What really happened?”
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