Six months ago, my son John brought Emily into the house I built with my late husband. Emily, a city girl with expensive clothes and a dismissive attitude, quickly made herself comfortable in our home, never lifting a finger to help. When I asked her to clear the plates, she arrogantly replied, “I didn’t come here to be a maid, ma’am. That’s what you have John for.” She continued sitting in my husband’s chair, scrolling through her phone.

Emily had no interest in housework—she considered it outdated. Instead, she dismissed it, saying, “That’s what services are for, ma’am.” John defended her every time, claiming, “She’s from a different generation, Mom, they have different values.” But those values, in my eyes, seemed to involve doing nothing while I handled everything, from cooking to cleaning to tending the garden.

One day, I saw Emily post online, boasting about the relaxing life in the countryside—painting a picture of herself living on vacation while I did all the work. Then, John told me they were moving to an apartment because Emily couldn’t adjust here. I kept my silence, heartbroken, as I packed homemade jams for them.

Months later, John returned home with a bag, his eyes downcast, and asked, “Can I come in, Mom?”