Living with her was like walking on a tightrope. Everything about Lorraine was sharp—her words, her stilettos, even the way she looked at Jason when she thought I wasn’t watching.
But family is family, I told myself. So, we tried to make it work.
Until I found the robe.
It started innocently. I was folding Jason’s laundry when I spotted a glossy gift bag tucked into the corner of his closet. Inside was a sheer lace robe—delicate, intimate, romantic.
My heart warmed. Maybe Jason was planning a surprise for me for Christmas.
If only that had been the case.
A few days later, Lorraine called me into her room. She had redecorated it in dark maroon tones—luxurious but unsettling.
“Look what my new boyfriend got me!” she cooed, spinning around dramatically.
There she was, wearing the very same robe I had found.
I stood frozen, trying to process it.
“Don’t you think it’s divine?” she purred. “He’s very discreet. Knows just how to spoil me.”
I felt sick. The robe Jason supposedly bought for me… on her?
Was it possible?
That night, I confronted Jason.
His face twisted in confusion.
“You think I bought Lorraine a robe? No way, Calla! I bought that for you!”
My heart ached with uncertainty. His denial felt real—but the doubt gnawed at me.
The tension between us grew until, one afternoon, while sorting Emma’s school supplies, I overheard Lorraine whispering into her phone.
“Yes, Kerry, I planted it. Jason didn’t even notice. Once they start fighting, they’ll leave—and this house will finally be mine.”
My blood ran cold.
Lorraine had staged the entire thing—planted the robe to make it seem like Jason was unfaithful. All to drive us out and claim the house my father had left behind.
When I told Jason what I heard, his hands balled into fists.
“She’s trying to destroy us,” he said through gritted teeth. “That ends now.”
We came up with a plan.
The next morning, over coffee, we casually mentioned to Lorraine that we might move out soon. She barely hid her excitement.
Later, we invited a lawyer friend over—posing as a “realtor”—to assess the situation. Lorraine spent the evening bragging about how she “needed her space.”
Finally, the trap was set.
At a family meeting, Jason handed her a thick envelope.
“What’s this?” she asked, suspicious.
“The deed to the house,” Jason said calmly. “Turns out, Calla is the primary beneficiary. You don’t own the house, Lorraine. We do.”
Her face drained of color.
“You’re lying! Your father would never leave me out!”
“He didn’t leave you with nothing,” I said. “He left you money. But he left me the home he built.”
She tried to bargain, promising to cook, clean, and be a better housemate.
But my mind was made up.
“I don’t want my daughter growing up around lies,” I said quietly.
Within a week, Lorraine moved out.
We reclaimed the home’s warmth, turning her old room into a cozy library and playroom for Emma. As for the lace robe? We donated it, along with the rest of Lorraine’s abandoned belongings.
Sometimes family doesn’t mean unconditional trust.
Sometimes, you have to fight for the things—and the people—that truly matter.I Thought My Husband Was Hiding a Gift for Me—Until I Saw My Stepmother Wearing It
When my dad passed away last year, it felt like the soul of our family home left with him. He had built that house with his own hands, and every corner still smelled faintly of pine and fresh paint. After the funeral, my husband, Jason, our six-year-old daughter, Emma, and I moved in to help my stepmother, Lorraine.
Lorraine, who had been married to my dad for five years, made sure everyone knew she had been his “rock” during his final days.
“You can’t deny it, darling,” she said to me at the funeral reception. “If I’d gone on that Thailand trip, your father would have died alone. Poor thing.”
Living with her was like walking on a tightrope. Everything about Lorraine was sharp—her words, her stilettos, even the way she looked at Jason when she thought I wasn’t watching.
But family is family, I told myself. So, we tried to make it work.
Until I found the robe.
It started innocently. I was folding Jason’s laundry when I spotted a glossy gift bag tucked into the corner of his closet. Inside was a sheer lace robe—delicate, intimate, romantic.
My heart warmed. Maybe Jason was planning a surprise for me for Christmas.
If only that had been the case.
A few days later, Lorraine called me into her room. She had redecorated it in dark maroon tones—luxurious but unsettling.
“Look what my new boyfriend got me!” she cooed, spinning around dramatically.
There she was, wearing the very same robe I had found.
I stood frozen, trying to process it.
“Don’t you think it’s divine?” she purred. “He’s very discreet. Knows just how to spoil me.”
I felt sick. The robe Jason supposedly bought for me… on her?
Was it possible?
That night, I confronted Jason.
His face twisted in confusion.
“You think I bought Lorraine a robe? No way, Calla! I bought that for you!”
My heart ached with uncertainty. His denial felt real—but the doubt gnawed at me.
The tension between us grew until, one afternoon, while sorting Emma’s school supplies, I overheard Lorraine whispering into her phone.
“Yes, Kerry, I planted it. Jason didn’t even notice. Once they start fighting, they’ll leave—and this house will finally be mine.”
My blood ran cold.
Lorraine had staged the entire thing—planted the robe to make it seem like Jason was unfaithful. All to drive us out and claim the house my father had left behind.
When I told Jason what I heard, his hands balled into fists.
“She’s trying to destroy us,” he said through gritted teeth. “That ends now.”
We came up with a plan.
The next morning, over coffee, we casually mentioned to Lorraine that we might move out soon. She barely hid her excitement.
Later, we invited a lawyer friend over—posing as a “realtor”—to assess the situation. Lorraine spent the evening bragging about how she “needed her space.”
Finally, the trap was set.
At a family meeting, Jason handed her a thick envelope.
“What’s this?” she asked, suspicious.
“The deed to the house,” Jason said calmly. “Turns out, Calla is the primary beneficiary. You don’t own the house, Lorraine. We do.”
Her face drained of color.
“You’re lying! Your father would never leave me out!”
“He didn’t leave you with nothing,” I said. “He left you money. But he left me the home he built.”
She tried to bargain, promising to cook, clean, and be a better housemate.
But my mind was made up.
“I don’t want my daughter growing up around lies,” I said quietly.
Within a week, Lorraine moved out.
We reclaimed the home’s warmth, turning her old room into a cozy library and playroom for Emma. As for the lace robe? We donated it, along with the rest of Lorraine’s abandoned belongings.
Sometimes family doesn’t mean unconditional trust.
Sometimes, you have to fight for the things—and the people—that truly matter.