When my sister-in-law invited my kids to stay at her mansion for a week, I thought it was a dream come true.
Candace lives in a six-bedroom palace on ten acres of land. She has a giant pool that looks like something from a resort, a trampoline, and every game system you can imagine—including a PlayStation 5.
I pictured my daughter Annie, who’s ten, and my son Dean, who’s eight, running wild all week—swimming, eating snacks, and playing video games with their cousin Mikayla.
Mikayla is twelve, and honestly, she has everything money can buy. But Candace once told me she gets bored during summer. So, when she offered to host my kids, it felt like the perfect arrangement.
“That sounds amazing,” I told her, already mentally packing their bags. “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”
“Not at all!” she said brightly. “Mikayla needs friends around. You’d be doing us a favor.”
Hearing that, my heart softened. My kids deserved a summer like that.
“Great! I’ll drop them off Friday.”
So, I packed their swimsuits, snacks, and even handed each of them $150 to spend however they wanted. I also slipped $150 to Mikayla, because I wanted things to feel fair. My mom always told me: Don’t just say thank you—show it in actions.
When we arrived, Annie hugged me tight. “Thanks, Mom. This is going to be the best week ever.”
Dean, already glued to the sight of the sparkling pool through the glass doors, begged, “Can we swim right now?”
Candace laughed. “Get unpacked first! Mikayla, show your cousins their rooms, please?”
Mikayla waved them inside, and I called after them, “Text me everything!”
Annie flashed me a thumbs-up before disappearing inside.
I drove away smiling, imagining them giggling under fairy lights, making TikToks by the pool, and living their best kid lives.
But what I really did was deliver them straight into a nightmare.
For three days, I didn’t hear a peep. No texts. No selfies. Nothing.
That silence ate at me. You know how kids are with phones—they practically breathe through them. Dean might’ve been too busy with games, but Annie? She’s responsible. She always checks in.
I texted Candace on day three. Her reply came quick:
“Oh, they’re having SUCH a blast. Pool, candy, cartoons—it’s kid paradise here!”
I forced myself to relax. Maybe my kids were just… unplugging. Maybe this was actually good.
But then came day four.
I was cleaning up the kitchen when my phone buzzed. Annie’s name lit up my screen, and I smiled in relief—finally! But her message made my knees buckle.
“Mom, come save us. Aunt took away our phones. It’s my only chance.”
Save them? From what?!
I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t stop to think. I grabbed my keys, jumped in the car, and drove like my life depended on it. My hands were shaking the entire 25-minute drive, my chest tight with dread.
When I pulled into the driveway, I didn’t bother with parking straight. I ran straight for the backyard—and froze.
What I saw made my stomach drop.
Dean was on his knees, scrubbing pool tiles with a brush twice his size. His little arms looked exhausted.
Annie was dragging a giant black garbage bag across the lawn, straining like she worked for a cleaning company.
And Mikayla? She was lounging on a pool chair, sunglasses on, sipping orange juice from a mason jar, scrolling her phone like a queen.
Then I spotted the clipboard on the patio table.
I picked it up, my hands trembling. It was a chore chart:
Annie & Dean’s Daily Chores (For Pool Access + 30 Min Cartoons):
- Sweep & mop all bedrooms
- Do dishes & dry
- Fold laundry (all 3 bedrooms)
- Clean bathroom sink & toilet
- Wipe kitchen counters
- Skim & vacuum pool
- Make lemonade for outdoor guests
- Help with BBQ (if Mikayla has friends over)
At the bottom, Candace had drawn two smiley faces.
My skin went cold. This wasn’t summer fun. This was child labor.
“Oh! You’re early!” Candace suddenly appeared, all smiles, like she hadn’t just enslaved my children. “Everything okay? You look… grumpy?”
She followed my eyes to the clipboard and laughed.
“Oh, the chores? Your kids offered to help. Isn’t that sweet? They wanted to earn their pool time.”
Before I could speak, Annie’s small voice cut through. She stood behind Candace, eyes dull with exhaustion.
“We didn’t offer, Mom. Aunt Candace said if we didn’t work, she’d take away the money you gave us… and make us sleep in the garage.”
The garage. She threatened to throw my kids in the garage if they refused to work.
I wanted to explode. But instead, I called my kids over. “Pack your bags. We’re leaving. Now.”
Annie and Dean didn’t hesitate. They ran inside, stuffing clothes into bags.
“Where are your phones?” I asked.
“She locked them in her bedroom safe,” Dean muttered. “Said we were too distracted to work properly.”
I pressed my car keys into Annie’s hand. “Go wait in the car. I’ll get your phones.”
Inside, Candace started spewing excuses. “It was just a fun system! They like helping! It builds character!”
“Not another word,” I snapped. My voice was so sharp she actually flinched. “Give me my kids’ phones. Now.”
Her face paled. She must’ve seen the fire in my eyes, because she unlocked the safe and handed them over without a fight.
I walked out without another word. My kids were already waiting in the car, sitting silently like they’d just escaped a prison.
But I wasn’t done.
The next morning, I sent Candace an invoice.
Labor Services Provided: 2 children x 3 days = $600
I itemized everything—pool cleaning, laundry, dishes, trash removal. At the bottom, I wrote:
“If you don’t pay, I’ll share photos of your daughter lounging while mine cleaned up after her. I’ll start with your book club chat.”
Guess who Venmo’d me an hour later?
I used every dollar to take my kids on a two-day amusement park trip.
We rode roller coasters until we were dizzy, ate cotton candy for breakfast, funnel cake for lunch, and did ZERO chores.
“Mom, this is way better than that pool,” Annie said, chocolate ice cream dripping down her chin.
Dean spun around in the grass, laughing. “Yeah! And we don’t have to clean anything!”
Later, as we cuddled on the couch with pizza and movies, they told me more. Mikayla had invited friends every day—pool parties, barbecues, sleepovers. And Annie and Dean had to clean up after all of them.
“Aunt Candace said we should be grateful,” Annie whispered. “That we were learning responsibility.”
Responsibility? No. She stole their summer. She treated them like housekeepers.
Candace called three times that week. I ignored every call. She texted apologies. Deleted. She even messaged on Facebook, saying I was overreacting, that chores build character.
She called exploitation “help.”
But here’s what my kids really learned:
They learned that their mom will always come when they call. They learned that their work has value. And they learned that no matter what lies adults tell—the right adults will always protect them.