I loved our life. I really did.
The vanilla-scented calm, the sun hitting the counter at 4 PM, the quiet hum of my espresso machine after work — our apartment was peaceful, predictable, mine.
Then Daniel, with that “brace yourself” husband face, asked if his mom could stay a few days. A burst pipe. Just a week.
I agreed. What else could I do?
By day two, the house was unrecognizable. My framed photos were replaced with hers. The scent of vanilla was gone — drowned in potpourri and perfume balls. Even my underwear drawer wasn’t safe.
Still, I stayed silent. Until she used my luxury cream like it was hand lotion. Then took a soak in my tub, using my bath products, surrounded by my candles. All with a smile and a “We girls share everything, right?”
I calmly told Daniel. He shrugged. “She’s just being her.”
But the next morning, a full-blown house party was happening — in my blouse. In my living room. Her guests thought she lived here.
That was it.
I smiled. “Stay as long as you like,” I told her.
Because if Linda could invade my space, I could invite her guests to explore. Daniel’s cologne? Emptied. His tie pin? Bent. His sacred car? Lightly brushed against the mailbox. And every door? Opened for curious silver-haired gentlemen.
By the time Daniel found the damage, he was the one packing her cardigans and rushing her home.
I ran my bath that night — my gel, my candle, my silence. She was gone.
And somewhere, staring at beige walls, I knew she was still wondering what hit her.
Because when a woman crosses the line, you don’t argue.
You win.
And the house whispered back to me: welcome home.
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