I Came Home To Find My Son-in-law’s Whole Family Living In My House. My Daughter Was Missing And They Treated Me Like An Intruder. Should I Give Them More Than 24 Hours To Evict?
Meeting Mark
I pushed the door open without knocking. Mark sat at a desk we’d never owned, facing three large computer monitors. He was heavier than I remembered, his hair thinning on top.
He spun around in his expensive gaming chair, his expression shifting from annoyance to something like fear when he saw me.
“Margaret,” he said, standing up quickly. “We weren’t expecting you. Rebecca didn’t mention you were coming.”
“I’m sure she didn’t, since she didn’t know.”
I looked around the room. Rebecca’s art desk was gone. Her bookshelf was gone. Everything that had been hers was gone, replaced with Mark’s computers and gaming equipment and a mini-fridge in the corner.
“Where is my daughter, Mark?”
“She’s at work. She works the morning shift at the diner now. Helps pay the bills. Things have been tight since your husband got sick and you moved away.”
His tone was casual, almost friendly, but there was an edge underneath it,.
“The diner?” Rebecca had a master’s degree in library science. The last I knew, she was an assistant director at the public library downtown. “What happened to her job at the library?”
Mark shrugged.
“Budget cuts. She was laid off about a year ago. It’s been rough, you know? That’s why I suggested my family come stay with us. Help with expenses. We’re all pitching in.”
Something about the way he said it didn’t ring true. I’d learned to read people over my six decades of life, learned to spot the small tells that meant someone wasn’t being honest. Mark’s eyes shifted to the left when he spoke. His hand moved to scratch his neck, a nervous gesture.
“I’d like to see Rebecca,” I said.
“Sure, sure. She gets off at 3:00. You can wait here if you want, or come back later.” He was already turning back to his computer, dismissing me.
“I’ll wait. I didn’t move from the doorway. Downstairs in the living room. Which I assume your parents haven’t taken over yet?”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond,.
The Waiting Game
I turned and walked downstairs, my mind racing. Something was very, very wrong here. Rebecca wouldn’t have quit her library job without telling me. She’d worked too hard for that position, had been so proud when she got it.
And living with Mark’s entire extended family? Rebecca was an introvert, someone who needed quiet and space. This house full of strangers would be her nightmare.
The living room was relatively untouched, though someone’s laundry was piled on the couch. I moved it aside and sat down, pulling out my phone. My hands were still shaking as I texted Daniel.
I’m at the house. Something is wrong. Call you later.
His response came immediately. Do you need me to fly out there?
Not yet. Let me figure out what’s happening.
I sat there for six hours. Diane brought her children through several times, glaring at me each time but saying nothing. Mark came down once, grabbed something from the kitchen, and went back upstairs without acknowledging me.
An older couple, presumably Mark’s parents, came home around 2:00, loaded with shopping bags. They stopped short when they saw me,.
“Who’s this?” the man asked Diane, jerking his thumb in my direction.
“Rebecca’s mother,” Diane said, her voice dripping with disdain. “She let herself in. Said, ‘It’s her house.'”
The man, Mark’s father I assumed, laughed.
“Rebecca’s mother. The one who abandoned her daughter to go play nurse in Arizona? That’s rich.”
I stood up, my calm finally cracking.
“I did not abandon my daughter. I took care of my dying husband. And this is my house. My name is on the deed. Now someone is going to explain to me what’s happening here before I call the police myself.”
“Call them,” Mark’s father said, settling into the recliner like he owned it. “We have permission to be here. Mark’s our son. This is his house now. Rebecca signed it over to him six months ago when she couldn’t keep up with the mortgage payments after you left.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
“That’s impossible. There is no mortgage. My husband and I paid off this house fifteen years ago.”
“Well, there is one now,” he said, smirking. “A big one. Ask your daughter about it when she gets home from slinging hash at the diner.”
