The countdown to Monica’s arrival always filled me with dread. In seventeen minutes, my mother-in-law would sweep into our home like a category five hurricane, leaving destruction in her wake. “They’re early,” Jake muttered at the window. Naturally. Monica respected no one’s time – least of all ours.
For half a decade, this woman had treated our bedroom like her personal hotel suite. She’d rearrange my drawers, commandeer my closet, and fill the space with those awful vanilla candles that made my eyes water. Last Christmas, she’d emptied my jewelry box because she “needed the space.” The memory still made my blood boil.
When the doorbell rang, Jake put on his usual show of enthusiasm. Monica air-kissed her way past us while Frank trudged behind with their luggage. “Coffee would be lovely,” she called over her shoulder, already heading down the hall. Jake made a half-hearted attempt: “Mom, we have the guest room ready.” She dismissed him with a wave. “Those beds hurt my back. You young people can manage.”
I’d tried everything – subtle hints, direct requests, even phone conversations laying down the law. Nothing worked. Until now.
Later, I found Monica standing triumphantly in our bedroom, her suitcases already unpacked on our bed. “The guest room is too sunny in the mornings,” she declared. I simply smiled. “Of course.” The game was afoot.
Dinner was Monica’s usual critique session – the chicken was dry, the wine too sweet, the plates too casual. But I remained strangely serene, which only seemed to unnerve her more. When they retired to our room, Jake pulled me aside. “What’s going on? You’re never this calm about Mom.”
My secret weapon? A carefully curated collection of adult toys, edible massage oils, and scandalous lingerie placed exactly where Monica would find them. Jake’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “You didn’t!”
“Oh, I absolutely did.”
The next morning, a visibly shaken Monica appeared in the kitchen. “We’ve decided to use the guest room after all,” she announced stiffly. I poured coffee with exaggerated concern. “But I thought you hated guest rooms?” Monica’s eye twitched. “We… reconsidered.”
By lunchtime, they’d moved all their belongings without another word. As I relaxed on the porch with a well-earned drink, Jake demanded details. “Remember when I said I was going shopping for ‘special items’?” His laughter told me he understood perfectly. Sometimes, the quietest revenge makes the loudest statement.
