I’m a 60-year-old widow named Jennifer, living alone after the passing of my husband Nathan five years ago. Nathan had once asked me, “Always look after Toby,” referring to our sensitive son—advice I held close as Toby and I leaned on each other through our grief.
A year later, Toby introduced me to his fiancée, Layla—a poised, charming 30-year-old who made a memorable first impression. At their wedding six months later, I was moved to tears, hopeful she would become a daughter I could love.
But the first lunch at their home shattered those hopes. I arrived a mere ten minutes late, and Layla pounced—accusing me of being disrespectful before Toby could even greet me. Her words stung, especially as she reverted to sweetness anytime Toby looked on. Behind his back, her barbs aimed to undermine me.
Then came the “favor” that turned into betrayal: she asked to borrow my car because hers had broken down. Wanting to be helpful, I agreed—but later, Layla returned my SUV utterly ruined: scarred, dented, dusty, and emitting a foul smell. She brushed it off as if nothing had happened. Toby sided with her, claiming the car was already in that condition when she took it.
Devastated yet determined, I refused to argue—knowing my son’s loyalty lay with his wife. Instead, I devised a clever lesson. During the night, I secretly sprayed animal attractant all over their driveway, porch, and yard. The next morning, Toby called in a panic: wild animals had turned their home into a filthy mess.
As I listened to his frantic plea, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of bittersweet satisfaction. Maybe now, Layla would think twice before mistreating her mother-in-law—and Toby might finally see the lengths to which I would go to protect him and our bond.
