I watched the clock tick down – seventeen minutes until Monica’s arrival. My mother-in-law didn’t visit; she invaded. And like every previous visit, she’d claim our bedroom as her own territory. “They’re early,” Jake observed dryly. Of course they were. Monica lived by her own rules.
Five years of this woman treating our home like her personal resort had worn me down. She’d rearrange my belongings, criticize my housekeeping, and leave those horrendous scented candles everywhere. The final straw came when I found my jewelry box emptied last Christmas – Monica had needed “the space.”
When the doorbell rang, Jake performed his usual cheerful greeting. Monica swept past us while poor Frank struggled with the bags. “Coffee, darling?” she called, already halfway to our bedroom. Jake tried weakly, “Mom, we prepared the guest room.” She waved him off. “You know those beds hurt my back.”
I’d tried every approach – polite hints, firm boundaries, even outright demands. Nothing worked. But this time would be different.
Finding Monica later in our bedroom, her clothes already occupying my closet, I simply smiled. “The guest room gets morning sun,” she declared. “Of course,” I agreed sweetly. The trap was sprung.
Dinner was Monica’s usual performance – complaints about the meal, the wine, even the table setting. But I remained uncharacteristically calm, which seemed to unsettle her. When they retired to our room, Jake cornered me. “What’s going on? You’re never this okay with Mom’s behavior.”
My revenge? A carefully arranged collection of adult toys, flavored lubricants, and scandalous lingerie placed exactly where Monica would discover them. Jake’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t!”
“Oh, but I did.”
Next morning, a pale and shaken Monica appeared. “We’ll take the guest room,” she announced stiffly. I feigned surprise. “But I thought you preferred our room?” Monica actually shuddered. “We’ve… changed our minds.”
By evening, they’d moved all their things without another word. As I enjoyed the sunset from the porch, Jake demanded answers. “Remember my ‘special shopping trip’?” His burst of laughter was music to my ears. Sometimes, the quietest revenge speaks volumes.
