Five months pregnant and glowing, I thought life couldn’t get better. I had everything I’d dreamed of—almost.
My husband, Arnold, was a dream come true. He brought me coffee in bed every morning, rubbed my swollen feet without complaint, and even drove twenty minutes at midnight last week just to get me pickle ice cream.
We had our cozy little house with the white picket fence, and the nursery was already half-painted in soft yellow since we wanted the baby’s gender to be a surprise.
Everything was perfect… except for one problem.
My mother-in-law, Martha.
Now, don’t get me wrong—Arnold was amazing in every way. But when I married him and moved into his home, I also gained his mother, who had been living there since his father passed away three years ago.
Martha was sixty-five, sharp as ever, and stubborn to the core. The problem wasn’t that she lived with us. The problem was her complete disregard for boundaries—especially when it came to packages.
It didn’t matter if it was UPS, FedEx, or Amazon. The second she heard the rumble of a delivery truck, Martha sprinted to the door like she was competing in the Olympics. Before I could even check my tracking notifications, she’d already snatched up the packages and ripped them open like it was Christmas morning.
And when I confronted her? She always had the same excuse.
“Oh, I thought it might be something important for the house,” she’d say with fake innocence, batting her eyelashes like she was doing me a favor.
Most of the time, I swallowed my irritation to avoid family drama. But pregnancy had made me extra protective of my space—and everything felt so much more personal now.
The breaking point came when I was planning our gender reveal party. I’d been secretly ordering decorations and supplies, timing deliveries carefully so Arnold wouldn’t find out. I wanted the reveal to be magical—for him, for me, for everyone.
But one afternoon, everything came crashing down.
I returned from a doctor’s appointment to find tissue paper scattered across the kitchen like confetti. And there was Martha, grinning ear to ear, holding up a bright blue card from the package I’d ordered.
“It’s a boy!” she shouted, waving the card in the air. “Arnold, did you hear? Cecelia’s having a boy!”
Arnold peeked out from his office, confused. My heart dropped. My cheeks burned. That moment—the one I’d carefully planned for weeks—was ruined.
Martha had stolen our surprise with one selfish, thoughtless act.
I clenched my fists. I wanted to scream. But I knew Martha’s game—if I blew up, she’d twist the story. She’d cry to the family, “Oh, poor me, I was just trying to help, and look how she treated me!”
So I smiled. I said nothing.
But inside, I was already planning my revenge.
That night, while Arnold slept peacefully beside me, I grabbed my laptop. If Martha wanted to snoop so badly, I’d give her something unforgettable to snoop on.
The first thing I ordered was ridiculous: a giant, neon pink adult toy with enough features to power a spaceship. It screamed humiliation. The second was even better—a glitter bomb disguised as a boring padded envelope. One tug, and it would explode into a sparkly mess that would stick for weeks.
And I wasn’t done. I remembered our front door security camera. Not only would Martha fall for my trap, but I’d also have undeniable proof.
The next morning, I tracked those packages like a hawk. When the app finally pinged Delivered, my heart raced.
I peeked out the window as the delivery truck drove away, leaving two innocent-looking packages on the porch—both clearly labeled with my name.
Cue Martha.
Her bedroom door creaked open. Footsteps thundered down the hall. She flung the front door open and snatched the packages faster than lightning. Then she vanished into her room, hugging them like stolen treasure.
I waited. Silence. Ten minutes ticked by.
Then came the scream.
It was so loud I nearly jumped out of my chair. It was followed by thuds, bangs, and what sounded like a wrestling match with a wild raccoon.
Finally, Martha emerged, walking slowly, glitter sparkling on her hair, her glasses missing, and humiliation written all over her face.
On the coffee table lay the evidence: the neon-pink monstrosity in full view, and glitter everywhere—on the rug, on the furniture, even on her reading glasses.
I strolled in casually. “Everything okay out here?” I asked sweetly.
She froze. “Oh, yes, dear. Just… just cleaning up a little spill.”
I picked up the glitter bomb envelope and raised an eyebrow. “Funny, this has my name on it. Did you happen to see who opened it?”
Her face went red. She stuttered, “I… well… I thought maybe—”
“Maybe it was for you?” I asked, smiling. “Even though it clearly says Cecelia?”
Before she could answer, Arnold walked in. He stopped dead when he saw the glitter-covered mess and the pink “evidence” shining on the table.
“What in the world happened here?” he asked.
I looked straight at Martha. “Why don’t you tell him? You’re the one who opened my packages.”
But Martha had nothing. She muttered a quick “Sorry, sorry, won’t happen again,” and rushed back to her room.
Arnold turned to me, his eyes wide. “Did you seriously order a glitter bomb just to catch her?”
I grinned. “Maybe. And it worked perfectly.”
He shook his head, fighting a laugh. “You’re terrible. And brilliant. But mostly terrible.”
From that day on, Martha never touched another package. Every delivery sat untouched on the porch until I collected it.
But of course, she tried to save face. She whispered to relatives that I’d been ordering “inappropriate things” while pregnant and painted herself as the poor victim.
“I was just helping with the packages,” she told anyone who’d listen. “And I found something a young mother should never be ordering.”
For two days, I worried people might believe her. Arnold’s cousin Jenny even texted, “Hey, girl, Mom said Martha’s upset about something you ordered? Everything okay?”
That’s when I brought out the ace: the security footage.
Arnold and I sent the clip to the entire family group chat. There was Martha—bolting across the porch like an Olympic sprinter, stealing my package, and sneaking inside with it clutched to her chest.
The responses poured in. Arnold’s aunt Karen sealed the deal:
“So, you snooped, stole packages, lied about it, AND tried to embarrass a pregnant woman? Martha, you’re lucky all you got was glitter.”
And just like that, Martha became the family’s infamous “Package Bandit.”
As for me, every time I see a package waiting safely on the porch, I smile. It reminds me of glitter, victory, and the day Martha finally learned her lesson.
