When my sister-in-law invited my kids to stay at her mansion for a week, I thought I’d just handed them the best summer of their lives. A mansion with a pool, games, treats, and acres of space—it sounded like every kid’s dream. But a few days later, I received a chilling text from my daughter that made my blood run cold. I rushed over unannounced, and what I saw in that backyard shook me to my core.
It all began when my sister-in-law, Candace, called me one sunny afternoon.
“Why don’t Annie and Dean come spend the week here?” she said brightly. “Mikayla’s been bored all summer, and it’ll be fun for them to hang out.”
Candace lived in a six-bedroom mansion on ten acres of land. The place looked like something out of a lifestyle magazine—resort-style pool, trampoline, game room, and more snacks than a grocery store aisle. Her twelve-year-old daughter, Mikayla, had everything money could buy but always seemed restless.
“That sounds amazing,” I told her, already picturing my ten-year-old Annie and eight-year-old Dean splashing around in the pool, giggling under fairy lights at night, or playing the newest PlayStation games. “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”
“Not at all!” Candace said. “Honestly, you’d be doing us a favor. Mikayla needs friends around.”
My heart warmed. My kids deserved this kind of summer magic. “Perfect. I’ll drop them off Friday.”
When the day came, I packed swimsuits, their favorite snacks, and even tucked $150 into each of their pockets for treats. Just to be fair, I slipped Mikayla $150 too. My mom always told me: say thank you with actions, not just words.
At the drop-off, Annie hugged me tight. “Thanks, Mom. This is going to be the best week ever.”
Dean, meanwhile, was staring at the pool through the sliding glass doors. “Can we swim right now?”
Candace laughed. “Unpack first, Dean! You’ll have plenty of time.” She smiled at me and called to her daughter, “Mikayla, show your cousins to their rooms.”
“Text me everything!” I called out as Annie and Dean disappeared inside. Annie gave me a quick thumbs-up, and I drove off, feeling good about the decision.
But I had no idea I had just sent my kids into a nightmare.
For three full days, I didn’t hear a single word from Annie or Dean. Not a meme, not a silly selfie, not even a short text. And these were kids practically glued to their phones!
Finally, on day three, I texted Candace to check in. She replied right away:
“Oh, they’re having SUCH a blast. Pool, candy, cartoons—it’s basically kid paradise here!”
Her words calmed me for a while. I imagined cannonballs into the deep end, sticky hands from popsicles, late-night giggles. Maybe they were so busy having fun that they just forgot to text.
But then day four came.
I was wiping crumbs off the counter when my phone buzzed. Annie’s name lit up. My heart skipped—finally! But when I opened the message, my chest tightened.
It said only:
“Mom, come save us. Aunt took away our phones. It’s my only chance.”
I didn’t call anyone. Not Annie. Not Candace. Not even my husband. I just grabbed my keys, jumped into my car, and tore down the road. My hands shook on the steering wheel the entire 25-minute drive.
Save them? From what?
I had no idea what I was about to walk into.
When I pulled up, I didn’t even park straight—I just skidded into the driveway and bolted to the backyard. And there, I froze.
Dean was on his knees, scrubbing the pool tiles with a giant brush, his little arms straining. Annie was dragging a heavy black garbage bag across the lawn, sweat glistening on her forehead.
And Mikayla? She was lounging on a chair, sipping orange juice from a mason jar, scrolling on her phone like some queen by the pool.
But the thing that made my stomach drop was the clipboard on the table next to her.
On it was a printed list, titled:
“Annie and Dean’s Daily Chores (For Access to Pool + 30 Min Cartoons)”
The list included:
- Sweep and mop all bedrooms
- Do dishes and dry
- Fold laundry (all 3 bedrooms)
- Clean bathroom sink and toilet
- Wipe kitchen counters
- Skim and vacuum pool
- Make lemonade for outdoor guests
- Help with evening BBQ (if Mikayla has guests)
At the bottom, two smiley faces were drawn in cheerful marker.
My skin went cold. This wasn’t summer fun. This was child labor.
“Oh! You’re early! Everything okay?” Candace’s voice rang out behind me. She walked over, all fake sunshine and smiles. “You look… grumpy?”
I didn’t answer. My eyes were glued to the clipboard.
She followed my gaze and actually laughed. “Oh, those chores? Your kids offered to help! Isn’t that sweet? They wanted to earn their pool time.”
Before I could even respond, Annie appeared behind her, face pale, eyes empty.
“We didn’t offer, Mom,” she whispered. “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 had threatened my babies with the garage.
Rage boiled in my chest. I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. I wanted to scream, to throw that clipboard in her face. But I couldn’t trust myself not to do something I’d regret.
Instead, I turned to Annie and Dean. “Pack your stuff. We’re leaving now.”
They didn’t even hesitate. They dashed inside, shoving clothes into bags as if they’d been waiting for me to come save them.
“Where are your phones?” I asked.
“She locked them in her bedroom safe,” Dean muttered. “Said we were too distracted to work.”
Work. My kids—eight and ten years old—had been working like employees.
I handed Annie the car keys. “Go wait in the car. I’ll get the phones.”
Candace was in the kitchen, trying to look casual. But when I walked in, she immediately started spouting excuses.
“It was just a fun system! They liked helping! It builds character! Kids these days—”
“Not another word,” I snapped. My voice shook, but it was sharp as glass. “Candace, I am this close to doing something I’ll regret. Give me their phones. Now.”
Her smile vanished. She flinched and handed them over without a fight.
I didn’t look back. I just drove away with my kids, who sat silent in the backseat, their faces pale and distant.
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—dishes, laundry, bathrooms, pool cleaning, trash removal, BBQ prep. At the bottom, I added:
“If you don’t pay, I’ll send photos of your daughter lounging while mine cleaned up after her. I’ll start with your book club group chat.”
An hour later, she Venmo’d me the full $600.
I used every penny to take Annie and Dean to the amusement park for two days straight. Cotton candy for breakfast, roller coasters until they were dizzy, funnel cake for lunch, and not a single chore in sight.
“This is way better than that pool,” Annie said, her chin smeared with chocolate ice cream.
“Yeah, and we don’t have to clean anything!” Dean laughed, spinning in circles on the grass.
Later that night, while we collapsed on the couch with pizza and movies, Annie told me the worst part:
“Mikayla had friends over every day, Mom. Pool parties, barbecues, sleepovers. And we had to clean up after all of them.”
Dean added, “She kept saying we should be grateful for the ‘experience.’”
Grateful? My sister-in-law thought exploitation was teaching responsibility.
Candace called me three times that week. I ignored her. She texted long apologies. I deleted them. She even tried messaging on Facebook: You’re overreacting. Kids need chores. I was trying to help.
Help? She turned my kids into her personal housekeepers. She stole their vacation and replaced it with work.
But here’s the thing—my kids did learn something that summer.
They learned that their mom will always come when they call for help. They learned that work deserves pay. They learned that some adults lie, but the right ones will always protect them.
And most of all, they learned they never have to be afraid to send me a text that says: “Come save us.”