When my future mother-in-law invited me over for tea, I thought she wanted to bond before the wedding. I imagined we’d sit together, share stories, and maybe even laugh about Jake’s childhood.
But instead? She handed me a list of 25 luxury gifts she expected me to buy for her—one for every year she had “invested” in raising Jake.
That’s the moment I started questioning what kind of family I was marrying into… and how far this woman was willing to go.
You know that strange feeling when someone smiles at you, but your instincts scream danger?
That’s exactly how I felt the day Jake’s mom, Linda, called me on the phone—just three weeks before our wedding.
Jake and I had been together for almost three years and engaged for six months. His family seemed pretty normal on the surface. They were polite, welcoming enough. But Linda always had this strange way of treating Jake like he was still her little boy. She would call him her “baby” in front of everyone, and once at a family barbecue, I even saw her cut up his steak for him.
It felt weird, sure, but I told myself she was just overprotective. Nothing I couldn’t handle.
So when she called me, her voice dripping with sweetness, I ignored my gut feeling.
“Sweetheart,” Linda cooed, “I was hoping we could have a little woman-to-woman chat before the big day. Why don’t you come over for tea tomorrow afternoon?”
I hesitated for a moment but said, “Sure.” Maybe this was my chance to bond with her.
The next day, I stood nervously on her spotless doorstep with a bottle of wine in hand. I kept telling myself, It’s fine. She probably just wants to welcome me properly into the family.
When she opened the door, Linda stood there in her perfectly ironed cardigan, smiling that kind of smile that looks warm from a distance but turns cold up close.
“Come in, dear,” she said sweetly.
Her house was immaculate—everything beige, sterile, and uncomfortable. She led me into the living room, poured tea into delicate china cups that probably cost more than my car payment, and sat across from me.
I was ready for wedding talk. Maybe some embarrassing Jake stories.
But instead, she reached into a drawer and slid a folded piece of paper across the coffee table.
“What’s this?” I asked, picking it up.
“Oh, just a little something I put together for you,” she said casually, like she was handing me her favorite recipe.
I unfolded the paper—and nearly choked on my tea.
It was a list.
Linda’s 25 Must-Have Gifts Before the Wedding.
- Louis Vuitton Neverfull MM handbag.
- Cartier Love bracelet.
- Tiffany diamond pendant.
The list went on: Gucci silk scarf, Hermès perfume, spa weekends, trips to Napa Valley, Chanel No. 5, an Apple Watch, first-class tickets to Hawaii. Twenty-five items worth more than Jake and I earned in a year.
“Linda…” I let out a nervous laugh, hoping this was some kind of twisted joke. “What exactly is this?”
She sipped her tea, calm as ever. “That’s your repayment list, sweetheart. One gift for every year I invested in raising Jake.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re getting a finished product, thanks to the work I put into raising him,” she explained slowly, like she was talking to a child. “Motherhood is priceless, but in this case, I’ve made it reasonable. A little material appreciation will show me you value family.”
Reasonable? I looked back at the list. Designer jewelry, luxury trips, and at the very bottom: a professionally filmed “thank you” video.
She had completely lost her mind.
“Linda,” I said carefully, trying not to explode, “marriage isn’t an exchange of goods. Jake and I are building a life together. I don’t owe you payment for raising your own son. Nobody told me I’d be paying a dowry here.”
Her fake smile didn’t move. “If you can’t honor the years I spent raising him, maybe you don’t value family the way we do.”
I left her house with the list crumpled in my purse and a pounding headache.
When I got home, Jake was in the kitchen making dinner.
“How was tea with Mom?” he asked cheerfully.
“Where do I even start?” I sighed. I smoothed the paper out on the counter. “She gave me this. A list of gifts I’m supposed to give her before the wedding.”
Jake laughed. “Ha! Very funny. What did she really want to talk about?”
“Jake,” I said quietly, “I’m not kidding.”
His smile dropped. He read the list again, slowly this time. I watched his face shift from confusion, to disbelief, to pure anger.
“She can’t be serious.”
“Oh, she’s dead serious.”
Jake grabbed his phone and called her right there. I could hear Linda’s calm voice on the other end, repeating the same line she gave me:
“If she can’t honor the years I spent raising you, maybe she doesn’t value family.”
Jake hung up, looking like he’d been punched. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea she would—”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. But deep down, I wondered: What other surprises does your mother have in store?
I thought that was the end of it. How naïve of me.
Two weeks later, at Jake’s cousin’s engagement party, Linda decided to go public.
She stood up during dessert, raised her glass, and said, “When you marry into a family, you don’t just marry the person. You honor the people who raised them. Some of us are still waiting on our tokens of appreciation.”
The entire room went silent. My face burned with humiliation as whispers started spreading.
Jake shot up from his seat. “Mom, stop this. Now.”
But the damage was done. That’s when I realized—we’d gone from ridiculous to toxic.
Something had to change. Publicly.
Linda’s birthday was coming up. She had been dropping hints about which gift I would “choose first” from her list—the Cartier bracelet seemed to be her favorite.
So, I came up with a plan.
If she wanted 25 gifts, I would give her 25 gifts.
I spent an entire Saturday at the dollar store. I handpicked every item with care:
- A plastic tiara with fake gems.
- A cat calendar (she hated cats).
- Off-brand perfume called Evening Mist that smelled like bathroom cleaner.
- A chipped “World’s Best Mom” mug.
- A rubber duck with sunglasses.
- Motel soap still in the wrapper.
- A roll of toilet paper, with “For all the crap you’ve put me through” written on it in gold Sharpie.
I wrapped each one perfectly in shiny paper and ribbons, making them look luxurious.
Her birthday dinner was held at her favorite upscale restaurant, surrounded by the entire extended family. The kind of place where the napkins are folded for you if you get up.
Perfect stage.
During dessert, I brought in a huge decorative box.
“Linda,” I said sweetly, “I wanted to give you something special. Here are 25 gifts to honor the years you spent raising Jake.”
Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. She thought I had caved.
She opened the first gift—a packet of gummy worms. Her smile faltered.
The second—mini stapler. People began exchanging confused glances.
The third—motel soap. Someone stifled a laugh.
By the tenth gift, a rubber duck, the entire table was struggling not to burst out laughing. Jake’s aunt nearly choked from holding it in.
By the twenty-fourth—a tacky bookmark—Linda’s face was red with fury.
Finally, she opened the last gift. The toilet paper. She read the gold message aloud.
The whole table erupted. People clapped, laughed, even wiped tears from their eyes. Jake’s sister was bent over, shaking with laughter. Jake himself started clapping proudly. His dad had to cover his mouth with his napkin.
Linda slammed the lid shut. “You’re mocking me!”
I looked her dead in the eye. “No, Linda. I’m honoring you—just like you asked. You never specified how valuable the gifts had to be.”
She shot up so fast her chair toppled over, grabbed her purse, and stormed out, leaving her cake untouched.
The dinner carried on without her—and honestly, it was the best time I’d ever had with Jake’s family.
One by one, relatives came up to whisper things like, “Thank you. About time someone put her in her place.” Even Linda’s own sister winked at me and said, “She had that coming for years.”
The next day, Jake gave his mom an ultimatum: respect me as his future wife or don’t come to the wedding. She’s been silent ever since.
And honestly? That silence is the greatest gift of all.
Yes, technically, I gave her 25 gifts. But the 26th gift was peace—and the applause of an entire family who finally felt free to laugh at the woman who thought she was untouchable.