It was a quiet Tuesday when Lillian’s SUV screeched into my driveway. I assumed it was a pie drop-off—her usual “homemade” ones that taste suspiciously like Costco.
But then five kids tumbled out.
“They’re yours till September!” she chirped, dressed like she was headed to brunch, not dumping a small army on my porch.
I blinked. “Wait, what?”
“You’re a teacher! You’re off. Jessica and Brian are off to Europe. I was going to watch them, but I’m swamped.”
Before I could protest, she was gone.
So I smiled—because I had a plan.
That week, I ran the house like a boot camp. Chores, crafts, carrot sticks. And I documented everything on Facebook:
“Thanks to my MIL for leaving me five helpers all summer!”
“Ellie’s sweeping like a pro!”
Every post tagged Lillian.
Every one public.
By Friday, she was back—frazzled and apologizing.
“They’re flying home early. I’ll take the kids.”
I handed her their bags and smiled.
“No worries. They’ve learned to mop.”
She whispered, “You didn’t have to humiliate me.”
“Oh, I didn’t,” I said. “I just shared our memories.”
She never dumped them on me again.
Now? She calls first.
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