At his wedding, my son screamed, “Get out. She doesn’t want you here.”
I walked out silently, tears streaming. The next day, “Mom, give me the mansion keys. We’re honeymooning there.”
I gave him the keys with a smile. When they turned on the TV in the master bedroom, there was a nice video of his bride playing on every channel.

I’m Dorothy Walsh, sixty-seven years old, and apparently the most unwelcome mother-in-law in Connecticut.
But let me backtrack to how I got my perfect revenge on the woman who stole my son—and the son who betrayed me.

The wedding was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I’d spent three months helping plan every detail, from the flowers to the catering menu. I’d even bought a beautiful navy dress that complimented Sophia’s color scheme. Everything was perfect until the moment I walked into the reception hall.

“What is she doing here?” Sophia’s voice cut through the chatter like a knife. She stood there in her five-thousand-dollar dress, pointing at me like I was some unwanted party crasher.

My son, Michael—the boy I’d raised alone after his father died—just stood there frozen.

“I invited her,” Michael said weakly. “She’s my mother.”

“Your mother?” Sophia’s laugh was sharp and cold. “The woman who tried to sabotage our engagement. The woman who called me a gold digger at the rehearsal dinner.”

I never called her that, though I certainly thought it. What I actually said was that I hoped they’d discussed their financial expectations for marriage. Apparently, that counted as sabotage in Sophia’s world.

“Get out!” Michael suddenly exploded, his face red with champagne and anger. “She doesn’t want you here, and honestly, neither do I. This is supposed to be our day, not another one of your guilt trips.”

The entire reception hall went silent. Two hundred guests stared at me as tears rolled down my cheeks. My own son, the boy I’d worked three jobs to put through college, was throwing me out of his wedding like yesterday’s garbage.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t make a scene. I simply picked up my purse, walked to the door, and left.

But as I sat in my car in the parking lot, watching through the windows as the party continued without me, something hard and cold settled in my chest.
If they wanted to treat me like the enemy, maybe it was time I started acting like one.

The next morning, Michael called. His voice was different now—sweet and apologetic, the way it got when he wanted something.

“Mom, I’m sorry about last night. Sophia was just stressed, and I overreacted. You know how weddings are.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” I said, though my heart was still broken. “These things happen.”

“Actually, we have a favor to ask. Could we borrow the keys to the mansion in the Hamptons? We want to honeymoon there instead of going to Italy. The travel costs got a bit higher than expected.”

The mansion—my late husband’s family estate—was worth about four million dollars, which Michael thought he’d inherit someday. The same property where I’d spent my happiest years before Robert died. The same property where I’d installed a very sophisticated security system six months ago.

“Of course, darling,” I said, sweetness dripping from my voice. “I’ll have the keys ready for you this afternoon.”

When Michael arrived with Sophia to pick up the keys, I couldn’t help but notice how she avoided eye contact with me. Good. She should feel ashamed of herself.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Walsh,” she said in that fake sweet voice she used when she wanted something.

“Oh, call me Dorothy,” I said, handing over the keys with a bright smile. “After all, we’re family now.”

They drove off in Michael’s BMW, laughing and planning their romantic getaway. I watched them go, then went inside to check my laptop.

The security system I’d installed wasn’t just for burglary protection. It included cameras in every room and the ability to override the entertainment system remotely. I opened the control panel and started uploading a very special video to the mansion’s media server.

A video I’d been saving for exactly the right moment.
A video that was about to turn their honeymoon into a nightmare they’d never forget.

Because three months ago, I’d learned the truth about my sweet daughter-in-law. And now it was time she learned what happens when you mess with Dorothy Walsh.

It started with a phone call that changed everything.

“Mrs. Walsh, this is Detective James Morrison with the Hartford Police Department. We’re investigating a fraud case and your son’s fiancée’s name came up. Could we speak with you?”

My blood ran cold. This was two weeks before the wedding, and I was in the middle of addressing invitation envelopes when the call came.

“What kind of fraud?” I managed to ask.

“Credit card fraud, identity theft, some other charges. We believe she may have used false information to obtain credit under her previous name. The name Sophia Chen is relatively new.”

Sophia Chen. Her name wasn’t even real.

I sat down hard in my kitchen chair, my mind racing. “Who had my son agreed to marry?”

“What was her previous name?” I asked.

“Sarah Martinez. She’s been Sarah Martinez for the past eight years until she legally changed her name eighteen months ago—right around the time she met your son, actually.”

Eighteen months ago. Exactly when she’d shown up at the country club where Michael played tennis, claiming to be new in town and looking for lessons. What a convenient coincidence.

“Detective Morrison, what exactly are you investigating?”

“She ran up about seventy-five thousand dollars in credit card debt under her previous identity, then disappeared. Changed her name, changed her entire identity. Her victims were mostly older men she met through dating apps. She’d gain their trust, get access to their financial information, then max out credit cards before vanishing.”

I felt sick. My son—my trusting, naive son—was about to marry a con artist.

“Have you spoken to my son about this?”

“We tried, ma’am. He refused to listen. Said we were wrong about her, that she’d told him about her name change already. Said it was because of an abusive ex-husband.”

Of course she’d have a sob story ready. That was probably how she’d hooked Michael in the first place. My son always was a sucker for a damsel in distress.

“What can I do to help?”

“Honestly, not much legally. She hasn’t technically committed any crimes as Sophia Chen, but we thought the family should know what they’re dealing with.”

After the detective hung up, I sat staring at the wedding invitations scattered across my table. Two hundred people were about to watch my son marry a criminal. But how could I stop it?

Michael was completely under her spell, and as he’d made clear repeatedly, he thought I was just a jealous mother trying to interfere.

That’s when I decided to do some investigating of my own.

If the police couldn’t prove anything, maybe I could find evidence they’d missed.

I hired a private investigator, a woman named Carmen Rodriguez, who specialized in background checks. Within a week, she’d uncovered more than the police had.

“Your future daughter-in-law is quite interesting,” Carmen said, spreading photos and documents across my coffee table. “Sarah Martinez was married twice before—both times to wealthy older men. Both marriages ended in divorce, with her getting substantial settlements.”

I studied the photographs. There was Sophia, but younger, with different hair, laughing at charity galas with men old enough to be her grandfather.

“This one,” Carmen pointed to a photo of Sophia with a silver-haired man in a tuxedo, “was Marcus Freeman, a real estate developer in Florida. They were married for eighteen months. He died of a heart attack six months after their divorce was finalized.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“It gets better. The autopsy showed elevated levels of digitalis in his system. Not enough to be lethal, but enough to cause the kind of heart stress that might trigger an attack in someone with pre-existing conditions.”

My hands started shaking. “Are you saying she murdered him?”

“I’m saying the timing was very convenient. She got a $2.3 million settlement from the divorce, then inherited another $800,000 when he died. No charges were ever filed, but the family was suspicious enough to request the autopsy.”

Carmen pulled out another file. “Then there’s husband number two—David Park, a tech executive in California. Same pattern. Whirlwind romance, quick marriage, mysterious health problems, expensive divorce, then a convenient accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Fell down the stairs in his home, broke his neck. Again, no charges filed, but the insurance company fought the payout for two years.”

I felt like I was going to be sick. This woman—this predator—had somehow gotten her claws into my son.

And there was more.

“The really interesting part,” Carmen continued, “is what happened in between marriages. She’d take breaks, completely disappear for six months to a year, then resurface with a new identity, new story, new hunting ground. And now she’s hunting your son, it appears. So the question is, what are you going to do about it?”