When my mother-in-law, Linda, moved in, she made it clear that she wasn’t there to lift a finger. She referred to herself as a “guest” in our home, which was her way of avoiding chores. Instead of kicking her out, I decided to get creative and treat her like the guest she claimed to be. Little did she know, she wasn’t going to enjoy the VIP treatment for long.
I had never thought of Linda as a neat freak, but I certainly never expected to become her personal maid, either.
It all started when Jason, my husband, told me his mom had sold her condo and needed somewhere to stay. “Just for a little while,” he said, with that hopeful tone that made it sound like it would be no big deal. But I had my doubts. The last time Linda stayed with us longer than a weekend, she criticized everything from my cooking to how I folded towels. It didn’t leave me with warm, fuzzy feelings.
“How long is ‘a little while’?” I asked, already dreading the idea of another long stay.
Jason shrugged. “A couple of weeks? Maybe a month?”
I sighed. I could already tell this wasn’t going to be easy. “Fine. But we need ground rules.”
Jason, ever the optimist, agreed immediately. “Of course,” he said, as if everything would be just fine—mistake number one. He clearly didn’t realize how much help he would need enforcing those rules.
The following weekend, Linda moved in. She brought with her three suitcases, an assortment of houseplants, and absolutely no regard for personal space.
At first, I convinced myself that it wouldn’t be too bad. Sure, she unpacked, filled our kitchen with organic teas she would never drink, and made passive-aggressive comments about how “young people these days” relied too much on microwaves instead of “real cooking.” But I could tolerate that, right?
By the second week, I realized that Linda wasn’t just a guest. She was a full-time problem.
She left dirty dishes on the table, promising to wash them later. But “later” never came. My bathroom mirror was smeared with makeup and fingerprints every day, a silent reminder that she had no intention of cleaning up after herself. Laundry? She didn’t do her own. Instead, she casually tossed her clothes into my hamper, as if I was dying to wash her sweatpants along with my work blouses.
I tried to approach her gently. “Hey, Linda, do you mind tossing your towel in the hamper?”
She flashed me a sweet, clueless smile. “Oh, honey, I’m just a guest! You wouldn’t ask a guest to do chores, would you?”
A guest. In the home I paid for.
Meanwhile, Jason, as always, was absolutely useless.
“She’s my mom, babe,” he said when I vented to him. “Can’t we just let her be comfortable?”
Comfortable? She was living like royalty while I cleaned up after two adults. I swallowed my frustration and told myself to let it go.
That is, until the coffee incident.
It was a Saturday morning, my one sacred day to sleep in. The only morning I could truly relax. I shuffled into the kitchen, still groggy, craving the one thing that would make me feel human—my special coffee, the expensive brand I bought just for myself as a little indulgence.
And there she was. Linda, sitting at my table, sipping from my favorite mug, drinking the last of my precious coffee.
I stared at her, trying to stay calm, but my gaze drifted to the sink. Three plates. A coffee mug. Crumbs everywhere. A disaster zone left for me to clean up.
I took a slow, deep breath. “Linda, would you mind helping with the dishes today?”
She didn’t even look up from her coffee. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, waving a dismissive hand, “I’m sure you’ll get to it.”
Something inside me snapped. But I didn’t yell. I didn’t argue.
I smiled.
In that moment, a beautiful, perfect idea began to form in my head.
Linda wanted to be treated like a guest? Fine. I was going to treat her exactly like one.
For the next week, I played the perfect host, smiling sweetly while I carried out my plan. I didn’t nag, I didn’t complain, and I certainly didn’t ask her to clean up after herself anymore. Instead, I made sure she got the full guest experience.
Monday morning arrived, and Linda woke up to a neatly printed menu on her nightstand. At the top, in elegant script, it read:
“Welcome to the Family B&B! Please select your complimentary breakfast option.”
Underneath were three simple choices:
☕ Cereal & Milk – Served in the finest ceramic bowl.
🍞 Toast & Butter – Lightly crisped to perfection.
🍛 Chef’s Surprise – A delightful mystery from last night’s leftovers.
Linda wandered into the kitchen, holding the menu, clearly confused. “What’s this?”
“Oh, just a little something I put together,” I said cheerfully. “I know you’re a guest, so I figured you shouldn’t have to fend for yourself in the mornings.”
She frowned. “But where’s my omelet? You always make eggs on Mondays.”
I gave her a sympathetic look. “Oh, sorry! The upgraded breakfast package isn’t included in the complimentary stay.” I gestured to the counter. “Would you like cereal or toast?”
She huffed but begrudgingly chose cereal.
One small victory for me.
Linda had another habit—she loved watching YouTube and scrolling through Facebook well into the night, giggling at videos while the rest of us tried to sleep. That’s when I decided to introduce my next change.
Tuesday night, right around 11 p.m., I turned off the WiFi router.
Not five minutes later, Linda came stomping out of her room. “Emma! The internet’s not working.”
“Oh, right,” I said, stifling a yawn. “We have an automatic shutoff system now. It’s part of our house security protocol—reduces cyber threats and keeps everything running smoothly.”
She blinked. “That’s ridiculous. I was in the middle of a show!”
“Sorry, house rules! It turns back on at 7 a.m. Have a good night!” I said with a smile.
She muttered something under her breath and stomped back to her room.
By Wednesday, I stepped up my game. Every time I cleaned up her mess, I left a laminated sign in the area:
🛑 “Housekeeping in Progress! Do Not Disturb!”
One on the bathroom mirror after wiping off her makeup smudges. Another in the kitchen after scrubbing her crusty plates. One draped dramatically over the couch where she left crumbs.
She scowled every time she saw one. “What’s with all these signs?”
“Oh, just a reminder that housekeeping is an important part of any guest experience,” I said with a smile.
Her eye twitched. I almost felt bad. Almost.
By Thursday, I stopped making dinner. Instead, I left a neatly stacked pile of takeout menus in Linda’s room.
That evening, she stood in the kitchen, looking bewildered. “What’s for dinner?”
“Oh, I figured you might want to pick something yourself! Guests should have options,” I said, handing her a menu. “There’s a great Chinese place down the street. Or pizza, if you’re in the mood.”
Her lips pursed. “But you always cook.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t want to impose. Enjoy!”
Jason, of course, just grabbed a menu and went along with it, oblivious as ever.
Sunday morning, Linda found an envelope on her dresser. Inside was a neatly written invoice:
🧺 Laundry Services – $50
🧼 Maid Service – $30
☕ Coffee & Breakfast Supply Fee – $20
🏨 Hotel Convenience Charge – $15
At the bottom, I’d written:
“Thank you for staying at the Family B&B! Please settle your balance by the end of your stay.”
I was halfway through my first sip of coffee when I heard an outraged gasp from down the hall. I knew exactly what was coming.
Seconds later, Linda stormed into the kitchen, waving the bill in my face. Her face was red, and her lips were pressed so tightly together they nearly disappeared.
“What is this?” she demanded, shaking the paper at me like I had personally insulted her.
I took another slow sip of coffee. “Oh, just an invoice for your stay. Standard hospitality rates.”
Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. “I am not paying to live in my own son’s house!”
I tilted my head, playing innocent. “Oh? I thought you were a guest? And guests don’t stay for free, Linda.”
For a moment, she was too stunned to speak. Then, she turned to Jason, who had just walked in, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Jason,” she sputtered, thrusting the bill at him. “Your wife is trying to charge me for staying here!”
Jason blinked at the paper, then at me.
“Babe,” he said slowly, “is this real?”
I smiled sweetly. “Of course not. I’m not actually charging her. I’m just following her logic. Guests don’t clean up after themselves, so they pay for service instead.”
Jason looked between me and his mother, realization dawning on him. Meanwhile, Linda’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.
“This is ridiculous!” she shrieked. “I don’t feel welcome here anymore!”
I raised an eyebrow. And then—oh, it was beautiful—she said it.
“I guess I’ll just find somewhere else to stay!”
Jason hesitated, but I shot him a look that said, I dare you to argue. He sighed, rubbing his face.
“Mom… maybe that’s for the best.”
And just like that, within a week, Linda was gone.
The house was peaceful again. No more dirty dishes left on the table. No more towels left on my furniture. No more waking up to passive-aggressive comments.
Jason, finally free from his guilt, admitted, “Okay… maybe you had a point.”
And me? I poured myself a fresh cup of my special coffee, stretched out on my guest-free couch, and savored my victory.
Linda may have been too special to clean up after herself. But in the end?
She cleaned herself right out of my house.