My Mother-in-Law Was Lounging in My Bathtub, Using My Candles, My Products, and My Towel—That’s When I Realized She Didn’t Just Move In… She Took Over. So I Got Creative.
I used to love our life. Truly.
Our apartment was cozy and calm—vanilla-scented air, sunlight pooling across the kitchen counter at exactly 4 p.m., and a quiet that felt like a warm hug after work. No chaos, no noise—just the hum of the espresso machine and a little slice of peace.
Then one day, my husband Daniel came into the laundry room wearing that sheepish “please don’t kill me” look.
“Babe… we need to let my mom stay with us for a few days. Her apartment flooded. It’s just temporary.”
Temporary. A week, max.
I agreed, because what else could I say? I’m not heartless.
But by day two, our home had transformed into a Linda museum. My framed photos vanished, replaced with portraits of her, her late husband, some mystery friend named Carol, and a Chihuahua that I swear has been gone since the early 2000s.
And the smell—overwhelming clouds of lavender potpourri, lavender diffusers, lavender-scented soap balls in my underwear drawer.
Still, I bit my tongue. She was a guest.
Until I caught her in the act.
I came home from a long day dreaming of a peaceful shower… only to find Linda in my bathtub. With my luxury candles, my specialty bath gel, and my expensive imported lotion rubbed all over her chest like it was a spa commercial.
She looked up with zero shame and chirped, “Emily! This cream is divine! Where did you get it?”
I just stood there. Speechless.
But I smiled. Because I knew this wasn’t just a visit anymore. She wasn’t a guest—she’d declared residency. And I was done being polite.
The next day, I installed the bedroom lock.
But locks are meaningless when someone already acts like they own the place.
Saturday—my sacred, peaceful yoga-and-lemon-water day—was shattered by thumping music and laughter downstairs. I followed the noise barefoot, still in my yoga top… and walked into what looked like a seniors’ speed-dating party.
Glittery blouses, bold lipstick, wine glasses clinking. Linda held a tray of cheese cubes. Wearing MY brand-new silk blouse.
“Emily, darling!” she beamed. “We started without you!”
One of the older men spun me into his date’s sequined chest before asking, “Who is she, Linda?”
And Linda answered: “She lives with me.”
Excuse me?
We marched into the kitchen, where I hissed, “What is this?”
“A little gathering!” she said sweetly. “I just told them this was my house so they wouldn’t feel weird about coming. And the blouse? You hadn’t worn it yet!”
I smiled—so calmly it scared even me. “They can stay,” I said. “In fact, make yourselves at home.”
Because I had a plan.
While Linda hosted her sparkling soirée, I gave the gentlemen a personalized tour… of Daniel’s office. His tie drawer. His prized cologne. His car keys, “accidentally” left out in the open.
The next morning, Daniel stormed into the kitchen, waving his cologne bottle.
“It’s EMPTY! What happened?!”
I sipped my coffee. “Maybe Thomas? He said it reminded him of Paris…”
Seconds later, a new scream: “My TIE PIN! Who’s been in my drawer?!”
“Oh no… they must’ve been impressed by your collection.”
Linda floated in, holding her grapefruit, wearing satin.
“Morning, sweeties! Isn’t the air just delicious?”
Daniel gaped. “Mom. Did your friends go through my stuff?”
“Of course not!” she smiled. “They’re very respectful!”
He left for work fuming—only to find his beloved car had a very artistic scrape along the side. I feigned concern: “The keys were on the shelf, honey. I never left the house…”
He left in stunned silence.
By that afternoon, he was loading Linda’s suitcases like it was a rescue mission. Contractors were suddenly “almost done.” Linda went back to her own place, and peace returned.
But before she left, I made sure to let her know: “While you were sunbathing yesterday, I gave the gentlemen a lovely tour. You inspired me, Linda. It felt good… letting others enjoy things that weren’t really theirs.”
No reply. Just stunned silence.
That night, with the apartment finally mine again, I lit my vanilla candle, poured myself a bath, and eased into the passionfruit-scented water—my water.
And as I exhaled, I swear the walls whispered:
Welcome home.