But I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Three days passed without a single message. Not a photo, a meme, a text—nothing. That wasn’t like my kids. Dean might forget, but Annie was usually thoughtful and consistent.
On day three, I texted Candace. She responded immediately: “They’re having a blast! Pool, candy, cartoons—it’s a dream week!”
I tried to believe her. Maybe they were just too busy having fun. I let the silence go.
Then, on day four, I got a message from Annie. Just a few words—but they knocked the wind out of me:
“Mom, come save us. Aunt took away our phones. It’s my only chance.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t call. I grabbed my keys and drove.
The 25-minute drive felt like an hour. My hands trembled the whole way.
What had happened? Why would she take their phones? What were my kids going through?
I pulled into Candace’s driveway and raced around to the backyard.
I froze.
Dean was on his knees scrubbing the tile around the pool with a giant brush. Annie was dragging a black trash bag across the lawn, her little arms straining.
Mikayla? She was lounging on a chair under a giant umbrella, sipping juice from a mason jar like a queen.
Then I saw the clipboard on the table.
It listed “Annie and Dean’s Daily Chores (For Access to Pool + 30 Min Cartoons)”. I read the list in disbelief:
Sweep and mop all bedrooms
Wash and dry dishes
Fold laundry (all three bedrooms)
Scrub bathroom sinks and toilets
Wipe kitchen counters
Take out the garbage and organize the recycling
Skim and vacuum the pool
Make lemonade for Mikayla’s guests
Help with evening BBQ prep
And at the bottom? Two little smiley faces.
My stomach turned. This wasn’t a vacation. It was child labor.
Candace emerged from the house, all smiles. “You’re early! Everything okay?”
She noticed my expression and glanced at the clipboard. “Oh, those chores? They offered to help! Sweet, right?”
Before I could answer, Annie appeared behind her.
“We didn’t offer,” she said quietly. “Aunt Candace said if we didn’t do the work, she’d take our money and make us sleep in the garage.”
The garage.
That was it. I turned to my kids. “Go inside and pack. We’re leaving.”
They didn’t question it. They ran.
I asked, “Where are your phones?”
“She locked them in her bedroom safe,” Dean said. “Said we were too distracted to work.”
I handed the car keys to Annie. “Go wait in the car. I’ll get them.”
Inside, Candace started sputtering. “It was just a fun system! Kids need structure! They love helping!”
I glared. “Not another word. Give me the phones. Now.”
She froze, then slowly walked to her room and returned with them.
I took them without saying anything and left.
We drove home in silence. I could tell they were shaken.
But I wasn’t done.
The next morning, I sent Candace an invoice:
Child Labor Services: 2 children x 3 days = $600
Dishwashing, pool cleaning, laundry, bathroom scrubbing
Event prep, guest service, yard maintenance
I ended it with a note: “If you don’t pay, I’ll post photos of Mikayla lounging while my daughter cleaned up her lemonade. Starting with your book club group chat.”
She Venmo’d me the full amount within the hour.
I used every penny to take my kids to an amusement park for two days.
Cotton candy for breakfast. Funnel cake for lunch. Roller coasters until they couldn’t stand. And not a single chore in sight.
That night, curled up on the couch with pizza and movies, they told me everything. Mikayla had friends over nearly every day. Annie and Dean were made to clean up after all of them.
“She kept saying we should be grateful,” Annie murmured. “That we were learning responsibility.”
Responsibility? No. That wasn’t a lesson. That was manipulation.
Candace called three times that week. I didn’t answer. She texted apologies, saying I was overreacting. I deleted them all.
My kids did learn something that week—but not what Candace intended.
They learned that their mom would always come when they needed her. They learned their time and effort had value.
And they learned that even when someone in the family tries to take advantage of them, they aren’t alone.
Because I will always fight for them. Every. Single. Time.
