For years, I worked three jobs to pay my FIL $3,000 a month to keep him from destroying my relationship with my son. But then he demanded more, and my son overheard everything. The terrible secret I’d been keeping was exposed, but it also brought a darker secret to light.
Five years ago, I lost my husband, Adam, in a car accident. One moment, he was there, and the next, he was gone.
Since then, it’s just been me, my 15-year-old son, Liam, and my mom. She’s reached a point in her life where I need to take care of her.
I work three jobs to keep us afloat, but more than half of what I earn goes to my father-in-law, Rick. Liam’s grandfather.
I thought he was my hero after Adam died. Rick was the executor of his estate. He handled everything for me so I had space to just grieve.
But for the last three years, Rick has been blackmailing me.
By the time I clocked out of my second job, my feet were numb.
I stood in the break room and opened my banking app, even though I already knew what I’d see. I did the math anyway: Groceries, Mom’s prescriptions, gas, the overdue electric bill, Liam’s school fee.
Then the number that sat in a separate place in my mind: $3000.
I didn’t have it.
But if I didn’t find the money somehow, Rick would tell Liam my secret.
My phone buzzed. I checked the notification.
Rick.
Don’t be late this month.
I laughed because the only alternative was to crumble into a sobbing heap at work.
It’s not just the money, or the soul-destroying knowledge that my father-in-law is blackmailing me. It’s that I’m his paycheck. Literally. He doesn’t work; he just bleeds me dry every month.
Adam always used to say his dad could be a piece of work, but I never thought he had it in him to be this cruel.
When I got home, the house smelled like onions, pepper, and broth.
Liam was at the stove, stirring a pot with one hand while reading his phone with the other.
“You made soup?” It hit me harder than it should have.
Liam frowned at me. “It’s not like it’s hard. You just throw stuff in a pot.”
I smiled. “Your stuff in a pot smells good.”
Liam rolled his eyes.
Three years ago, Liam couldn’t be in a room for five minutes without exploding. Now he was making dinner and remembering that his grandmother needed to eat first.
Shortly after Liam turned 12, our lives almost came crashing down around us.
Mom had recently moved in, and the son I thought had been coping well with his father’s death turned into a monster overnight.
The story doesn’t end here – it continues on the next page.
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