MY IN-LAWS TOLD MY CHILDREN TO SLEEP IN AN OUTBUILDING – THEIR EXPLANATION ASTONISHED ME, BUT SOONER OR LATER JUSTICE WAS SERVED.
So, my husband’s relatives have this peculiar custom of dispatching the children to his mother’s place for the summer break. When my twin daughters reached the age of six, my mother-in-law extended an invitation to them. I was already hesitant about it as she has consistently been indifferent towards my children. She purchases them cheap presents whilst lavishing expensive gifts on the other grandchildren. She didn’t even cradle them when they were infants and suddenly took notice of them now that they are six. My husband was delighted by the invitation, believing we would secure some time alone. He desired our girls to go, therefore I yielded. I contacted my daughters that evening to see how they were doing, and imagine this? They informed me that their grandparents PLACED THEM IN AN OUTBUILDING WITH STRAW BEDS AND RODENTS whilst all the other children remained inside the house! I WAS LIVID. My husband was occupied at work late, so I entered the vehicle and hastened to my in-laws’ residence. When they answered the entrance, I WAS UTTERLY STUNNED because my mother-in-law⬇️…was utterly stunned because my mother-in-law stood there, beaming, as if she’d just presented me with the key to a palace. “Oh, darling, you’re here! Come in, come in,” she chirped, ushering me inside with unnerving cheerfulness. My blood still boiled from my daughters’ phone call, but her strange gaiety threw me off balance for a moment.
I pushed past her into the living room, my eyes darting around, searching for my girls. I saw a cluster of children, all cousins, laughing and playing a board game on the floor. They were clearly comfortable and happy, inside the brightly lit, cozy house. Then my gaze landed on my daughters, sitting stiffly on a separate, smaller sofa, looking pale and withdrawn. They looked relieved to see me, their eyes pleading.
“Where are my daughters sleeping?” I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended. My mother-in-law’s smile faltered, but only slightly.
“Oh, the outbuilding? Yes, about that,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s a tradition, dear. A little… initiation, you could say.”
I stared at her, dumbfounded. “Initiation? Into what? Sleeping with rats?”
My husband’s father, who had been silently observing, chuckled nervously. “Now, now, Martha, no need to exaggerate. It’s just… well, it’s how we always did it. When children reach a certain age, they spend their first summer night in the ‘summer house’.”
“Summer house?” I repeated, incredulous. “You call that dilapidated shed with straw beds a summer house? And rodents are part of this ‘tradition’ too?”
“It builds character!” my mother-in-law declared, her smile returning with full force, as if she’d said something perfectly reasonable. “It teaches them resilience, independence! And it’s only for one night! They’ll be back in the house tomorrow, of course.”
“Of course?” I echoed, my voice rising. “And why are *my* daughters the only ones experiencing this ‘character building’ tonight? I see plenty of other grandchildren here, all older than six, and they are inside, warm and safe!”
Silence fell in the room. My mother-in-law’s smile finally vanished, replaced by a tight-lipped expression. My father-in-law cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at me.
Then, my husband’s sister, Sarah, who had been quietly listening, spoke up. “It’s… it’s because they’re twins,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible.
“Twins?” I asked, bewildered. “What does being twins have to do with sleeping in a shed with rats?”
Sarah hesitated, then blurted out, “It’s an old wives’ tale… some foolish superstition. Twins… well, some of the older generation believe twins bring… imbalance. That they need to be… separated initially, to… appease the spirits or something. It’s ridiculous, I know.” She looked genuinely ashamed.
I was speechless. Superstition? They were subjecting my innocent six-year-old daughters to a disgusting and frightening ordeal based on some archaic, nonsensical superstition about twins? And they called it “tradition” and “character building”? The sheer audacity and prejudice left me reeling.
Without another word, I marched towards the back door, ignoring my in-laws’ sputtering protests. I found the outbuilding, just as my daughters had described. It was damp, musty, and the straw beds looked filthy. My poor girls were huddled together, trying to comfort each other.
“Come on, girls,” I said, my voice trembling with anger and love. “We’re going home.”
I didn’t even bother packing their meager belongings. I just scooped them up, one in each arm, and walked back to the house, my daughters clinging to me like frightened kittens. I walked straight through the living room, ignoring the shocked faces, the pathetic excuses, and the feeble attempts to stop me.
“Don’t you dare ever contact my children again,” I spat at my in-laws as I reached the front door. “You are not fit to be grandparents. Your ‘tradition’ is nothing but cruel prejudice, and I will not allow my daughters to be subjected to your backward beliefs.”
I drove home, my daughters asleep in the back seat, their small bodies still shaking slightly. When my husband finally came home late that night, I told him everything. He was initially disbelieving, defending his mother as always. But when he saw the genuine fear in our daughters’ eyes and heard the full, horrifying story, something shifted in him. He finally understood. He saw his mother’s favoritism, her coldness, and the sheer absurdity of their “tradition.”
The next day, he confronted his parents. It was a difficult and painful conversation, but he stood his ground. He told them that their superstition was disgusting and that they had traumatized his children. He told them that unless they offered a sincere apology to our daughters, they would not see them again.
My mother-in-law, predictably, refused to apologize. She doubled down on the “tradition” nonsense and accused me of being dramatic and disrespectful of their culture. My father-in-law remained silent, caught between his wife and his son.
And that was it. Justice was served, not in some grand, dramatic fashion, but in the quiet, firm decision to protect my children. We limited contact with my in-laws. My husband, though saddened by the rift, stood by my side and, most importantly, by our daughters. He finally understood that blood relations don’t automatically equal family, and that protecting your children from harmful people, even if they are relatives, is the most important form of justice you can serve. My daughters slowly recovered, their summer vacation ending not with nightmares of rodents and straw, but with the solid, unwavering love of their parents, a love that shielded them from the darkness of prejudice and superstition.