Right after Vion and I got married, his parents hit tough times. His mom, Sylva, and dad, Dren, had to give up their house because Dren lost his job. Our tiny place couldn’t fit them, but we couldn’t leave them to fend for themselves.

They were in a bind, and so were we. When they found out my mom lived alone, they asked to stay with her. Mom’s two-story house was big, but after a car accident left her in a wheelchair, she had a live-in nurse to help.

“Please, Aeloria,” Sylva begged at Mom’s house over dinner. “We’re out of options and broke.”

I knew how much this hurt Vion—he felt helpless. When Mom agreed, Vion squeezed my hand under the table, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Of course, you can stay,” Mom said warmly. “As long as you need.”

At first, things went smoothly. Sylva cooked meals, and Dren mowed the lawn and kept things tidy.

But then things turned sour, and social services got involved. It was a total mess. Here’s what happened.

My in-laws started grumbling that Mom took up the whole first floor—which made sense, since my sister and I had made it her space after her accident. She needed it to move around easily, and the second floor was for us when we visited. Instead of being thankful, they complained about not having room for their stuff.

They even fussed about Mom’s fridge. “It’s all boring food,” Dren muttered. “Nothing special.”

But they never bought their own groceries or anything they wanted.

Even after Sylva got a job as a librarian and Dren started proofreading at the local paper, their whining didn’t stop. “Don’t you think they should look for their own place?” Vion asked one evening as we walked. “I bet your mom wants her house back,” he added.

“Honestly,” I said, “I think she enjoys the company. She says it’s too quiet with just her and her nurse, Mirae.”

“I get that,” Vion said. “But my parents can be a handful.”

It was like he’d sensed trouble coming.

One day, I brought pastries to Mom’s house and found her looking upset. “What’s wrong?” I asked right away. “Vion’s parents,” she said softly.

“They’ve been hinting I should move to a nursing home. I overheard them talking about it last night.”

“Mom, that’s too far,” I said, furious. “Want me to tell them to leave?”

She gave a clever smile.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll take care of it.”

A few days later, Sylva called us, sobbing. “How could your mom do this to us?”

Apparently, Mom had told them to move their stuff to the first floor because she was “ready” for a nursing home, saying she wanted an easier life.

Vion’s parents thought they’d won. But Mom had a plan. She’d called social services, reporting two people staying with her temporarily who needed help.

The next day, social services showed up at Mom’s doorstep, ready to move Sylva and Dren to a social housing unit. They were furious. Vion and I rushed to Mom’s house because they demanded to see us.

“This is ridiculous!” Sylva shouted, her face red, pacing the living room like a trapped animal. “We thought we were moving downstairs, not out of the house!”

“How dare she trick us!” Dren yelled, slamming his fist on the table, his voice shaking with rage. “We’ve done so much for her these months!”

Vion flinched beside me, torn between his parents and the truth.

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