After my father-in-law’s death, my husband made the decision that we would relocate to his hometown. When we moved into the house I had paid for, my mother-in-law and sister-in-law were already there, opening boxes as if they owned the place. My mother-in-law told me to get out because they were hosting a party and I was ruining the mood. The following morning, a rich lady came to the house and stunned them both by asking, Where is my daughter?
Chapter 1: A Cold Welcome
Our SUV rolled past the “Welcome to Jefferson County” sign. I, Elena, 32, a successful architect in Chicago, gripped the steering wheel tightly. Beside me sat Mark, my husband. He was dozing, his mouth slightly open, looking carefree like a child.
My father-in-law, Earl, had died of lung cancer two months ago. Mark was completely devastated. He convinced me that we needed a fresh start, that he needed to go back home to care for his elderly mother and reconnect with his roots. Because I loved him, and because of the huge inheritance I had just received from my grandmother, I agreed.
I used my own money – exactly $650,000 in cash – to buy a beautifully restored Antebellum mansion on the outskirts of town. Mark said he wanted to be co-owners to feel like the breadwinner, but I cleverly put the paperwork under the name of a Trust I manage. A bit of businesswoman caution.
The car stopped in front of the ornate iron gate of our new house. The house was gleaming white, magnificent in the Alabama afternoon sun.
But something wasn’t right.
The gate was wide open. And in the yard, instead of the quiet of a newly purchased home, sat a rusty old Ford pickup truck and a 2005 Toyota sedan.
“Mark,” I nudged my husband’s shoulder. “Why are there strange cars in our yard?”
Mark rubbed his eyes and looked outside. “Oh, it’s probably Mom and Brenda helping us clean up. I gave Mom the smart key combination yesterday.”
I frowned. “You gave them the combination without asking my permission?”
“Come on, honey, they’re family.”
We entered the house. The sight inside made my blood boil.
In the large living room with its polished oak floors, my mother-in-law—Betty—and my sister-in-law—Brenda—were sprawled on my cream-colored Italian leather sofa. They were drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, cigarette butts falling onto the expensive Persian rug.
Around them were the cardboard boxes of my belongings that had arrived earlier. They were torn open. My clothes, books, and decorations were scattered everywhere.
Brenda was trying on my Burberry coat in front of the mirror.
“Mother? Brenda?” I said, trying to remain calm. “What are you all doing?”
Betty turned around. She was a large, stout woman, her face etched with harshness and bitterness. She looked me up and down as if I were a delivery person.
“Oh, you’re here,” she said, without getting up. “We’re checking if the furniture fits the house. Brenda likes this shirt, you should give it to her. You have plenty of money anyway.”
“This is my personal stuff,” I stepped forward, snatching the shirt from Brenda’s hand. “And why are you opening my box?”
Mark walked in, giving a forced smile. “Mom, Brenda, you two are here early?”
“Hello, darling,” Betty hugged Mark, completely ignoring me. “I told you, this house is too big. Brenda and I have decided to move in with you two. There are three rooms left on the second floor, right?”
“What?” I exclaimed. “Mark, you never discussed this with me.”
Mark scratched his head, avoiding my gaze. “Well… it’s big, you know. Mom just lost Dad, and Brenda just divorced… We should support each other.”
“No,” I said firmly. “This is my house. I need my privacy.”
The atmosphere in the room became tense. Betty narrowed her eyes at me.
“Your house?” She sneered. “Mark said he bought this house with his savings. You’re just a freeloader. Don’t you dare act superior here. This is Davis land, not your Chicago city.”
I turned to Mark, waiting for him to correct me. That the money was mine. That I was the owner.
But Mark remained silent. He bowed his head, not daring to look at his mother, nor at me. He had lied to save face.
“Alright,” Betty clapped her hands. “We’re having a party tonight. I’ve invited Auntie Tư, Uncle Bob, and the whole neighborhood to celebrate Mark’s new house. You…” she pointed at me. “…go into the kitchen and get ready.”
Chapter 2: The Intruders’ Party
That night was hell.
Over 30 strangers stormed into my house. Their muddy shoes trampled the wooden floor. They spilled beer on the chairs. They rummaged through the refrigerator.
I tried to be patient for Mark’s sake. I hid in the study to work, but the loud country music was impossible to concentrate on.
Around 9 p.m., Brenda burst through the door, holding my glass of red wine.
“Hey, girl,” she slurred, reeking of alcohol. “Mom told you to go outside and serve the food. Everyone’s hungry.”
“I’m not a maid,” I replied coldly. “And please put the glass down, that’s Czech crystal.”
Brenda laughed, deliberately tilting the glass, spilling a stream of the crimson liquid onto my architectural drawings.
“Ups, slipped,” she scoffed.
My patience snapped. I stood up and pushed Brenda out of the room.
“Get out! Everyone out!” I screamed and stormed into the living room.
I turned off the music. “The party’s over! Everyone go home!”
The room fell silent. Betty rose from her chair, her face flushed with anger.
She stepped in front of me, pointing her rough finger at my face.
“You dare chase my guest away?” she hissed. “Who do you think you are? You’re just Mark’s mistress. In this house, I’m the boss.”
She turned to Mark. “Mark! Teach your wife a lesson!”
Mark stood there, a glass of beer in his hand, looking at me with an annoyed expression. “Elena, you’re ruining everyone’s fun. Go inside.”
“You’re telling me to go inside?” I looked at my husband as if he were a stranger. “They’re ruining our house!”
“This is my mother’s house!” Betty yelled. “Mark bought it to support me! You’re just a lodger! You’re ruining the family’s happy atmosphere!”
She pushed me forcefully towards the front door.
“Get out! Go outside and sober up! When you know what’s good for you, come in and apologize!”
I looked at Mark. He turned away. He chose his mother. He chose his despicable lies over protecting his wife.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just felt an overwhelming sense of contempt.
“Okay,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I’ll be going.”
I grabbed my bag, walked out the door, and headed straight for the gate. I called an Uber to The Ritz-Carlton in downtown Birmingham.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I lay in my hotel bed, staring at the ceiling and formulating a plan. Mark had lied to his mother about buying a house. He thought I would keep quiet for the sake of his pride. He was wrong.
I opened my phone and dialed a number I’d sworn never to call again since running away from home at 18.
“Hello?” A powerful, cold female voice answered on the other end.
“Mom,” I said. “I need your help. I’m in Alabama.”
The other end of the line was silent for three seconds.
“Send the address to Mom. She’ll be there at 7 a.m. tomorrow.”
Chapter 3: The Queen’s Visit
The next morning. 8 a.m.
I returned to the mansion. The mess from last night’s party was still there. Empty beer cans were scattered all over the yard.
Mrs. Betty and Brenda were having breakfast in the kitchen, using my bone china plates to eat their cereal. Mark was asleep at the table.
“You’re back?” Mrs. Betty didn’t even look up. “Have you learned your lesson? Go clean up that battlefield outside and I’ll forgive you.”
I didn’t answer. I pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her, crossing my arms.
“Are you deaf?” Brenda snapped.
Just then, the smooth but powerful sound of an engine came from outside the gate. Not the sputtering of a pickup truck. That was the purr of a luxurious animal.
We looked out the window.
A sleek, long, black Bentley Mulsanne slowly pulled into the yard, stopping right in front of Betty’s rusty Ford.
The uniformed driver got out and opened the rear door.
A woman stepped out.
She was about 60, but looked a decade younger than Betty. She wore an ivory white Chanel suit, oversized sunglasses, and carried an Hermes Birkin bag. Every gesture and step exuded absolute nobility and power.
It was Evelyn Sinclair, Chairwoman of the Sinclair Real Estate Group, one of the richest women on the East Coast of the United States.
And my mother.
Betty and Brenda gasped. Mark also woke up, rubbing his eyes as he looked outside.
“Who…who is that?” Betty stammered. “Did she come to the wrong house?”
Evelyn entered the house without knocking. She took off her sunglasses, her sharp eyes scanning the messy room, glancing at Mark, Betty, and settling on me.
She wrinkled her nose at the smell of beer, liquor, and old cigarettes.
“My God,” Evelyn exclaimed, her voice echoing with contempt. “What a pigsty this is!”
Betty stood up, trying to appear aggressive to mask her fear at the stranger’s presence.
“Who are you? How dare you break into my house?”
Evelyn didn’t even look at Betty. She turned to the driver/bodyguard standing at the door.
“Arthur, give me the files.”
Arthur placed a leather-bound file on the dining table, knocking Brenda’s bowl of cereal aside, sending milk splashing everywhere.
“Hey!” Brenda yelled.
“Silence!” Evelyn snapped. The yell wasn’t loud, but it was powerful enough to silence Brenda.
Evelyn looked directly at Betty and Mark.
“I’m here to reclaim my property. And to ask a question.”
She looked around, then her gaze settled on me.
“Where is my daughter?”
Chapter 4: The Twist of Identity
The room fell silent.
Mark looked at Evelyn, then at me. “Daughter… daughter?”
Betty sneered. “You’re mistaken, madam. There’s no daughter here. Only my daughter-in-law, that useless Elena.”
Evelyn stepped toward me. She placed her hand on my shoulder.
“Elena,” she said. “Or her real name, Elizabeth Sinclair.”
Mark fell back in his chair. He knew the name Sinclair. He worked in construction, and the Sinclair Corporation was the biggest “shark” he’d ever dreamed of working with.
“Elena…” Mark stammered. “You… you’re Evelyn Sinclair’s daughter?”
“Yes,” I said, looking straight into my husband’s eyes. “I left home, changed my name, and started my own business because I didn’t want to live in my mother’s shadow. I thought you loved me for who I was, not for the Sinclair surname. But I was wrong.”
Evelyn turned to Betty, whose face had turned pale.
“You just said this is your house?” Evelyn asked, her voice trembling.
She smiled sarcastically.
“Yes! My son bought it!” Betty tried to salvage the situation.
“Wrong,” Evelyn opened the file. “This house was purchased with cash. The funds came from the Elizabeth Sinclair Trust. The Trust is the registered owner, and the sole administrator is my daughter.”
She tossed the title deed onto the table.
“Mark Davis,” Evelyn looked at her son-in-law. “You didn’t contribute a single penny. You even owe $50,000 on your credit card. You lied to your mother for the sake of false pride.”
Betty turned to look at her son, her eyes wide with despair. “Mark? You… you lied to me?”
Mark lowered his head.
“And,” Evelyn continued, cruelly and precisely. “Your actions last night: trespassing, property damage, abuse of the legal owner… My lawyer in New York is drafting a lawsuit.”
“I… I don’t know…” Betty trembled. “We’re family…”
“Family?” I stood up. “Family is about loving and respecting each other. Last night, you kicked me out of my house. You said I ruined the atmosphere. You said I was a freeloader.”
I looked around the dream house that had now turned into a nightmare.
“Mother,” I said to Evelyn. “You’re right. I was wrong to choose this man. I was wrong to think that sincerity could earn respect.”
Evelyn nodded. “It’s alright. Mistakes can be corrected. Arthur!”
The bodyguard stepped forward.
“Get these people out. Immediately.”
“What? Out where?” Brenda yelled.
“Out the street,” Evelyn said coldly. “Or to the police station. You choose.”
“Elena! You can’t do that!” Mark rushed forward and grabbed my hand. “You’re my husband! We can start over!”
I pulled my hand away.
“Mark, you let your mother kick me out of the house. You didn’t protect me. You only care about your own pride.”
I took off my wedding ring and placed it on the table, next to the pile of dirty beer cans.
“The divorce papers will be sent later. And don’t worry, with the Sinclair lawyers, you’ll leave with exactly what you bring: empty hands and a mountain of debt.”
Chapter 1: The Price to Pay
Within 15 minutes, Betty, Brenda, and Mark were thrown out of the mansion. Their rusty Ford wouldn’t start, and they had to wait in the scorching sun for a taxi, while neighbors pointed and whispered.
I stood by the window, watching them.
Evelyn stood beside me, her arm around my shoulder.
“What are you going to do with this house?” she asked.
“Sell it,” I said. “Or burn it. I don’t care. I just want to go home. To Chicago.”
“Go to New York with your mother,” Evelyn suggested. “It’s time for you to take the place you deserve.”
I looked at the mother I had once run away from. She was still domineering, still controlling, but she was the only one who came when I called.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
Mark stood outside the gate, looking in. He saw me – the “ordinary” wife he had once despised – standing next to the most powerful woman in the real estate world. He realized he had lost not just a wife, he had lost a jackpot he didn’t even know he was holding.
He buried his head in the steering wheel of his broken car, sobbing uncontrollably. Beside him, Betty was yelling, blaming Brenda.
A perfect picture of failure.
I turned my back and closed the curtains. The curtain had fallen.
