Every visit from my mother-in-law, Monica, felt like a hostile takeover. She waltzed into our home, claimed our master bedroom as her personal suite, and treated our belongings like clutter to be swept aside. After years of swallowing my frustration, I finally decided to give her a taste of her own medicine — and oh, did she get a taste.
The day of her latest invasion, I watched the clock nervously. My husband, Jake, muttered that his parents had arrived early, which was so typical of Monica.
As they pulled into the driveway, I smoothed my clothes and put on a polite smile. Jake squeezed my hand, whispering, “We’ve handled worse.” I wasn’t so sure.
For five years, Monica had been barging straight into our room, tossing her suitcases onto our bed, pushing my skincare aside, and lighting her strong floral candles everywhere. Last Christmas, she even dumped out my jewelry box for her “space needs.” I had grown tired of feeling like a stranger in my own home.
When I tried to set boundaries — suggesting the guest room — she brushed me off. “Stop being so dramatic,” she’d say, or “Your guest room is too uncomfortable.”
So this time, I decided to fight back differently.
The night before their arrival, I called her and made it crystal clear: “We’ve prepared the guest room for you. Our bedroom is off-limits.”
She responded with her usual dismissive tone, promising we’d “figure it out” when she got here.
I knew she wouldn’t listen, so I set a little trap.
Sure enough, when I came home from work that day, Monica had already taken over our bedroom. Her clothes were in my closet, her perfume dominated the air, and her candles were burning bright.
When she saw me, she just waved dismissively. “The guest room gets too much sun. We’ll stay here.”
I smiled sweetly. “Of course. Whatever you like.”
She looked surprised. She had expected resistance — not my calm acceptance.
That night, during dinner, she criticized my cooking and my choice of wine, as usual. But I kept smiling, savoring every second.
Later, Jake and I went to the guest room. He looked at me, completely confused. “What did you do?” he asked in a hushed voice.
I told him to wait and see.
The next morning, Monica stormed into the kitchen looking pale and stunned. Frank followed her, head down.
She could barely look at us. Finally, she croaked out, “We’ll take the guest room. Please.”
“Oh?” I asked, feigning surprise. “But I thought you preferred the master bedroom?”
She stammered, “We changed our minds.”
Jake nearly choked on his toast, trying to hold in his laughter.
After they scurried away to move their things, Jake cornered me. “What did you do?”
I showed him: the ultra-revealing lingerie hidden under the pillows, the adult toys “forgotten” in the bathroom, and the massage oils and suggestive items scattered strategically. Even the TV queue was loaded with explicit content.
Jake went white, then burst into uncontrollable laughter. “You’re brilliant,” he gasped.
For the rest of their stay, Monica and Frank stayed firmly in the guest room. When they left, Monica gave me a stiff hug and muttered, “The guest room was fine after all.”
I just smiled. “I’m so glad. You’re welcome to it anytime.”
That Christmas, they booked a hotel.
Some might call it petty. I call it teaching a much-needed lesson about respecting boundaries. And it worked — permanently.