When Cordelia, my mother-in-law, moved in with us after her husband passed away, I expected our lives to change, but not like this. She would leave early every Thursday and return smelling of decay. The odor was so strong, it lingered long after she was gone. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

One Wednesday night, I questioned my husband, Xander, about Cordelia’s unusual routine. “Maybe she’s grieving in her own way,” he said, dismissing my concerns. But the smell was unbearable and her secrecy troubling. I decided to follow her the next Thursday.

I trailed her to a run-down building in a shady part of town. Inside was a hidden casino, thick with smoke and desperation. Cordelia was there, gambling furiously, her demeanor one of obsession and desperation. It was clear she was in deep trouble.

The next morning, I confronted her at breakfast. “Cordelia, I know where you’ve been. I followed you to the casino.” She broke down, admitting she had lost everything and was using our home as a cover for her addiction.

Xander was furious. “You’ve been lying to us and using us?” he demanded.

“I didn’t know how to stop,” Cordelia cried. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t throw me out.”

After a sleepless night, Xander and I decided on tough love. We arranged for the casino to be raided. The following Thursday, I gave Cordelia a large sum of cash, knowing she’d head straight to the casino. As she arrived, undercover cops were already there. Cordelia was caught, and the casino was shut down.

Months later, Cordelia emerged from rehab looking fragile. At our doorstep, she tearfully apologized and promised to change. “We’re giving you another chance,” Xander said, “but only if you attend support group meetings.”

Cordelia agreed, and we watched her walk to her new apartment, hopeful but wary. We had done all we could; the rest was up to her.