Every time my parents-in-law came over, it felt like a storm was brewing. But it wasn’t just any storm—it was Hurricane Monica, my sassy mother-in-law, who always took over our bedroom. She’d push my things aside, light her signature scented candles, and make herself at home like she owned the place. I decided, this time, I wouldn’t let her win. I had a plan. A plan that would leave her begging for the guest room.
The clock ticked down, and I felt a knot tightening in my stomach. In exactly 17 minutes, Monica would be here. It wasn’t a regular visit; no, this time it felt like an invasion.
“They’re early,” Jake muttered as he peeked out the living room blinds, eyes narrowing.
The familiar silver sedan turned into our driveway—ten minutes ahead of schedule. Of course, Monica couldn’t stick to the plan. She was never one to follow the rules.
I took a deep breath, adjusted my shirt, and pasted on a smile. “Ready for the storm?” I asked, trying to hide my nerves.
Jake squeezed my hand, his voice calm but with a hint of dread. “We’ve weathered worse.”
But had we? I wasn’t so sure. For the last five years, I’d watched Monica march right into our bedroom, dump her luggage on our bed, and take over like she was the queen. She’d toss my toiletries aside, make room for her makeup, and light those overpowering candles she loved, leaving behind heavy floral scents and greasy stains from her so-called “relaxing oils.”
The worst memory? Last Christmas. I walked into my bedroom to find my jewelry box emptied into a drawer because Monica “needed the space.” She had even shoved my favorite books under the bed. Every time she came, I’d leave feeling like a guest in my own home, while Jake whispered apologies every night in the guest room, promising, “I’ll talk to her next time.”
But this time? Enough was enough.
The doorbell rang, and Jake opened it with his usual overly cheery greeting. “Mom! Dad! So good to see you!” He looked like he was trying to sell a product, but I knew better.
Monica breezed in like royalty, air-kissing both of Jake’s cheeks. Then, she gave me a look—one that made me feel invisible and scrutinized all at once.
Her husband, Frank, followed behind, carrying their luggage and looking as passive as ever.
“Always a pleasure,” Monica said, waving her hand airily. “You’re going to make us some coffee, right? Traveling’s so exhausting.”
Before I could even respond, she was halfway down the hall, and I caught Jake’s eye. He shot me an apologetic look, and I could see in his eyes the silent promise that he’d talk to her. But we both knew he wouldn’t.
“Mom,” Jake called after her, his voice faltering slightly. “We set up the guest room for you this time.”
Monica stopped, turned slowly, and smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile, though. It was the kind of smile a cat gives when it’s cornered a mouse. “Oh, sweetie, that’s nice, but you know how my back gets on those guest beds. You young people can handle it.”
Without another word, she swept past him and headed straight for our bedroom.
I’d tried everything. First, gentle hints like, “The guest room has a better view.” Then, more direct requests: “We really need to keep our room private.” Each one was met with a dismissive wave.
“Stop being dramatic. It’s just a room,” she’d snap.
“Maybe if you had better guest rooms, we wouldn’t need yours,” she once said as if our three-bedroom house existed just for her bi-annual visits.
For years, I swallowed my pride. I’d move my things out of the way, surrender our bedroom, and spend their visits feeling like a guest in my own home. Jake promised he’d talk to her “next time,” but I knew it would never happen.
Until now.
Last night, I’d had enough. I called Monica and told her flat out, “We’ve set up the guest room for you. It’s clean, cozy, and private. We’re keeping our bedroom to ourselves.”
“We’ll see when we get there, dear,” she’d replied with a tone that made it clear she wasn’t taking me seriously.
I wasn’t about to let her win this time.
“Just a heads up,” I called after her as she stomped down the hall. “There’s a new mattress in the guest room. You’ll be more comfortable there.”
I rushed out to do some errands, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before Monica made her way into our bedroom.
When I came home, sure enough, there it was—Monica had already claimed our space. Her suitcase lay open on our bed, clothes hanging in my closet. The heavy scent of her floral perfume mixed with three lit candles. My skincare products had been shoved aside to make room for her endless collection of lotions and oils.
When I appeared in the doorway, Monica stood proudly in the middle of the chaos.
“The guest room gets too much morning sun,” she declared with no apology in her voice. “It’s better for young people like you to adjust. We’ll stay here.”
Everything was going according to plan.
“Of course,” I said sweetly. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”
Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She was expecting me to argue. But this time, I was playing it cool.
That evening, dinner was tense. Monica picked apart everything: my cooking was too spicy, my wine was too acidic, and my dishes were… charming, in a rustic way.
I smiled through each jab, my calm demeanor growing more genuine as the evening wore on. Jake shot me confused looks, but I just squeezed his hand under the table.
After dinner, as Monica and Frank retreated to our bedroom, Jake and I slipped into the guest room.
“Okay, what’s going on?” he whispered as we lay in the guest bed. “You’re acting way too calm about all of this.”
I grinned. “Let’s just say I made some… preparations.”
“What kind of preparations?” His voice was filled with concern.
“Nothing illegal,” I reassured him, though the glint in my eye suggested something devious. “Just a little lesson in boundaries.”
We fell asleep to the sound of Monica’s TV blaring through the walls.
The next morning, I woke early to make coffee, humming as I set out breakfast pastries. Jake joined me, still puzzled by my good mood.
At exactly 7:43 a.m., Monica stormed into the kitchen. Her face was pale, her lips tight, and she looked like she’d seen a ghost.
Frank trailed behind her, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
I offered her coffee, but she didn’t take it. Her eyes avoided mine like I was a ghost herself.
After an uncomfortable silence, Monica finally spoke, her words forced, like they were causing her physical pain.
“We’ll take the guest room,” she said flatly. “Please.”
I tilted my head, pretending to be surprised. “Oh? I thought you loved the master bedroom?”
Monica flinched. “We changed our minds.”
Jake, still chewing on his toast, suddenly started coughing, trying not to laugh.
I patted his back a little too hard.
“The guest room gets that lovely morning light,” I said cheerfully. “And I just changed the sheets. I can help you move your things if you want.”
“No!” Monica snapped. “No, thank you. We’ll manage.”
She quickly excused herself, dragging Frank with her as they hurried back to the guest room to move their things.
As they settled in, I caught a glimpse of Monica’s face: still pale, still avoiding eye contact.
That night, after Monica and Frank had retreated to the guest room early, Jake finally cornered me in the kitchen.
“Alright, what exactly did you do?” he whispered, half horrified, half impressed.
I grinned. “Remember that shopping trip I took downtown?”
His eyes widened. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did. Plus a few other things from a website with overnight delivery,” I said, beckoning Jake over. “Come here, I’ll show you.”
I barely held back my giggles as I showed him the lacy, barely-there lingerie I’d left under the pillows, and the adult toys I’d “accidentally” left in the en-suite bathroom.
“Oh my God,” Jake breathed, his face draining of color.
“There’s more,” I whispered with a mischievous grin.
I’d also hidden massage oils, leather accessories, and some very interesting items in our bedroom and bathroom. I even filled our TV queue with titles that would make a sailor blush.
Jake’s mouth opened and closed several times before he found his voice. “My mother saw all this?”
“Every. Single. Piece.” I couldn’t hide my satisfaction. “I figured if she wanted our most private space, she needed to understand just how private it is.”
Jake went completely silent for a moment before bursting into laughter so loud I had to shush him.
“You’re evil,” he gasped, between breaths. “Absolutely evil. And brilliant.”
The rest of their visit went on in blessed peace. Monica and Frank stayed firmly within the boundaries of the guest room. When they left three days later, Monica gave me a stiff hug at the door.
“The guest room was… quite comfortable after all,” she said, her tone tight and forced.
“I’m so glad,” I said with a smile. “It’s always available for you when you visit.”
As their car pulled away, Jake wrapped his arm around me. “You know she’s probably traumatized for life.”
“Good,” I said, leaning into him. “So was I every time she invaded our space.”
That night, I slipped into bed with the satisfaction of a battle well won. Some might call it petty revenge, but I called it a lesson in boundaries. And judging by the text Jake received the next day saying they’d booked a hotel for Christmas, the lesson had stuck. Permanently.
