I watched the clock tick down with dread — in just 17 minutes, Hurricane Monica, also known as my mother-in-law, would arrive. As usual, she was early. My husband, Jake, peeked through the blinds. “They’re here,” he said, resigned.
Every visit, Monica treated our bedroom like her personal hotel suite — tossing her bags on our bed, scattering her cosmetics, lighting her overpowering candles, and rearranging our things without a second thought. I’d tried everything to stop her — polite suggestions, direct requests, even firm boundaries — all ignored. Jake promised to talk to her every time, but never did.
This time, I was ready.
Before she arrived, I made it crystal clear over the phone: the guest room was prepared and the master bedroom was off-limits. She replied with her usual smug, “We’ll see.”
Naturally, she ignored me again and claimed our bedroom the moment she walked in. But I’d planned for that.
I said nothing. I smiled. I let her settle in. That night, Jake was suspicious of my calm. “What did you do?” he asked. I just smirked. “Nothing illegal. Just a little… lesson.”
The next morning, Monica emerged pale, tight-lipped, and shaken. “We’ll take the guest room,” she said without making eye contact. Jake nearly choked on his toast trying not to laugh.
Later, I showed him the “surprises” I’d planted in our bedroom: lingerie under the pillows, toys in the bathroom, oils and leather accessories stashed around, and a very adult movie queue on the TV. His face turned white. Then he burst out laughing. “You’re brilliant.”
For the rest of their stay, Monica stuck to the guest room. When they left, she stiffly declared it “quite comfortable.” And the best part? Jake got a text the next day — they’d booked a hotel for Christmas.
Lesson learned. Boundaries respected. Finally.
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