I lived abroad for almost fifteen years. I worked as an accountant in an office, saving every penny and living with one thought: providing for my daughter’s future. She had a family in her hometown: a husband and children. I bought them a large house, registered it in my daughter’s name, and was confident she was living there peacefully and happily.

All those years we talked on the phone, but the conversations were always brief. My daughter would say everything was fine, that she was tired, that she had a lot to do. I attributed it to everyday life, the children, and life itself. I missed her and dreamed of the day I would return home.

When I finally arrived, I decided not to tell anyone. I wanted to surprise her. I imagined opening the door with my key and saying, “Surprise! I’m home.” But the surprise was waiting for me.

I slowly opened the door to the house I’d bought myself. And froze.

In the spacious living room, my daughter was on her knees, scrubbing the floors. She was wearing a blue maid’s uniform, over which lay a dirty apron with the words “Maid of this House” written on it. Her hands were shaking. I immediately noticed bruises on her wrists—the kind you get when someone’s grabbed too hard.

She looked exhausted, aged, as if the life had been squeezed out of her. She didn’t notice me right away.

“Mom?” she said quietly when she looked up.

She ran up to me, hugged me, and began whispering hastily that everything was fine, that I’d simply misunderstood that they had guests. But the truth quickly emerged.

Her father-in-law and mother-in-law and their youngest daughter lived in the house. They had moved in “temporarily” but quickly became masters. Her husband was completely on their side. My daughter cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, got up earlier than everyone else and went to bed later than everyone else. To them, she wasn’t the mistress of the house, but a servant. My house. The house I bought for her happiness.

I listened silently. And then I did something that left everyone speechless 😲😨

That same night, New Year’s Eve, I kicked them all out. No yelling. No hysterics. I simply called a taxi and told them they had ten minutes to leave. Things later. The house was mine. The documents were mine.

They celebrated New Year’s with some relatives. And my daughter and I were together. For the first time in many years, she smiled sincerely.

But it didn’t end there. We went to the police. We told them everything: the beatings, the coercion, the psychological pressure. There were checks, interrogations, statements. Her husband disappeared from her life as quickly as he had entered.

Now my daughter is the mistress of her own home again. And I am by her side. And if someone thinks that they can ruin someone else’s life by hiding behind their family, they are deeply mistaken.