Boundary-stomping mother-in-laws are practically a cliché—until you’re living with one. Monica didn’t visit; she occupied. Our bedroom became her domain, our closet her personal storage, and my patience nonexistent.
After years of passive-aggressive comments and “accidental” jewelry box raids, I’d had enough. This visit would be different.
When she predictably bypassed the guest room, I didn’t protest. Instead, I let her discover the “surprises” I’d left waiting: risqué literature on the nightstand, handcuffs dangling from the headboard, and a collection of items that would make a sailor blush—all meticulously arranged where she couldn’t miss them.
The result? A hasty middle-of-the-night relocation to the guest room and a breakfast so awkward you could cut the tension with a knife. Jake—who’d spent years torn between us—finally saw the humor in it all.
“Was the 12-inch novelty dildo really necessary?” he whispered later.
“Absolutely,” I replied. “She’ll never snoop through our drawers again.”
Some victories aren’t pretty, but watching Monica voluntarily exile herself to the guest room? Priceless.
