On a typical Tuesday evening, I walked into my in-laws’ house to find my children with completely empty plates, while their nieces and nephews were eating their third helping of lasagna from a “real” dinner set. Eighteen minutes later, I quietly decided I’d had enough of being their personal ATM, and that something in this family was about to go wrong in a way no one expected.

By the time we ate breakfast, he had fourteen missed calls from various family members. I had nine. The call flood began.

Addison’s first voicemail began with tears. Learn more Plates Plates
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“Leah, honey, please call me back. There’s been a terrible mess with the bank. They say we’re losing our house. Please, we need to sort this out. Call me.”

The second voicemail, recorded an hour later, sounded different.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, but this isn’t funny. You can’t ruin our lives just because you’re angry over a minor disagreement. We’re family. Call me back immediately.”

The third voicemail was pure rage.

“How dare you do this to us after everything we’ve done for you? We welcomed you into our family with open arms. We treated you like a daughter, and this is how you repay us? By taking our home? You’re a hateful, vengeful woman, and Wyatt deserves better.”

I listened to each interview as Wyatt sat across from me, searching my face for a reaction. I tried to keep my expression neutral and clinical, as if I were reviewing data from a project at work.

“She’s completely losing control,” I said calmly.

“Leah, maybe we should…”

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