Every time my in-laws came to visit, my mother-in-law, Monica, acted like she owned the place. The first thing she always did was march straight into our master bedroom, shove my things aside, and make herself at home as if it were her personal suite. She even lit her fancy signature candles like she was marking her territory.
But one day, I decided—enough was enough. If Monica wanted our bedroom so badly, I was going to give her an unforgettable surprise that would make her beg for the guest room instead.
I watched the clock tick down with a sinking feeling in my stomach. In just 17 minutes, Hurricane Monica would be arriving. That’s what I called her—because every visit felt like a storm that wrecked my home.
My husband, Jake, peeked through the blinds and muttered, “They’re early.”
Of course they were. Monica never respected time or rules. Sure enough, their shiny silver sedan pulled into our driveway ten minutes ahead of schedule.
I smoothed my shirt, took a deep breath, and forced a smile. “Ready for the storm?”
Jake gave me a little squeeze on the hand. “We’ve weathered worse,” he said.
But in my heart, I wasn’t so sure.
For five years, I had endured Monica’s invasions. The moment she arrived, she dumped her luggage on our bed without asking. My lotions and skincare would be shoved into a cabinet so she could spread out her endless collection of makeup and perfumes.
She lit strong candles and used “relaxing oils” that left greasy stains on my furniture. She even messed with my jewelry and once shoved my books under the bed just to make room for her stuff.
The worst was last Christmas. I’d found my jewelry box dumped into a drawer because, as she explained, “I needed the space.”
She never respected that it was our private room.
The doorbell rang. Jake opened it with exaggerated cheer. “Mom! Dad! Great to see you!”
Monica floated in like royalty, air-kissing Jake on both cheeks. Then she gave me one of her classic looks—a mix of judgment and dismissal all in one.
Her husband Frank followed behind, dragging their luggage. He never said much, just went along with whatever she wanted.
“Always lovely to see you both,” Monica said in her airy voice. “Would you brew some coffee while we get settled? Traveling is so exhausting.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She was already halfway down the hall—heading straight for our bedroom.
Jake called out, “Mom, we set up the guest room for you this time.”
Monica stopped, turned slowly, and smiled like a cat toying with a mouse. “Oh, that’s sweet, but you know my back doesn’t agree with those guest beds. You young people can handle it.”
Then she continued her march, dragging her suitcase right into our sanctuary.
Over the years, I had tried everything:
- Gentle hints: “The guest room actually has a better view.”
- Direct requests: “We’d really like to keep our room private.”
Her responses? Always dismissive.
“Stop being dramatic—it’s just a room,” she’d say.
Or even worse: “Maybe if you had nicer guest rooms, we wouldn’t need yours.”
So every visit, I swallowed my pride. Jake and I would camp out in the guest room, while Monica spread her chaos through ours. Jake always whispered, “I’ll talk to her next time,” but next time never came.
But last night, something inside me snapped. I called Monica directly.
“Monica,” I said firmly. “We’ve prepared the guest room for you. It’s clean, cozy, and private. We’re keeping our bedroom to ourselves.”
Her voice oozed with condescension: “We’ll see when we get there, dear.”
That was it. I decided to prepare my little surprise plan.
Sure enough, when I came home from work that day, the war had already been lost. Our bedroom was a battlefield: her suitcase exploded across our bed, her clothes hanging in my closet, her candles lit, and her perfume choking the air.
She looked right at me and declared proudly, “The guest room gets too much morning sun. It’s better for young people like you to adjust. We’re staying here.”
I smiled sweetly. “Of course. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
For the first time ever, my lack of resistance caught her off guard. She blinked in confusion, but shrugged it off.
At dinner that night, Monica was in full force.
“The chicken’s a little too spicy,” she complained.
“This wine is acidic.”
“These dishes… charming, in a rustic way.”
Each criticism rolled off me. I smiled, nodding politely, secretly laughing inside. Jake kept glancing at me like I’d lost my mind.
When we finally retreated to the guest room, he whispered, “Okay, what’s going on? You’re being too calm.”
“Let’s just say,” I told him, tucking into bed, “I made some preparations.”
His eyes narrowed. “What kind of preparations?”
“Nothing illegal,” I said with a grin. “Just a little lesson in boundaries.”
The next morning, at exactly 7:43 a.m., Monica stormed into the kitchen.
Her face was pale, her lips thin and tight, and she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Frank trailed behind, staring at the floor.
“We’ll take the guest room,” Monica blurted. “Please.”
I tilted my head. “Oh? I thought you loved the master bedroom?”
She flinched. “We changed our minds.”
Jake almost choked on his toast, trying not to laugh.
I continued, perfectly pleasant. “The guest room gets lovely morning light. I just changed the sheets. I can help you move your things.”
“No!” she said quickly. “We can manage.”
And off they went, transferring their belongings in silence, Monica’s face still haunted.
That night, Jake cornered me in the kitchen. “Okay, what did you do?”
I smirked. “Remember that trip to the specialty store downtown?”
His eyes went wide. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did,” I said proudly. “And I added a few overnight deliveries too.”
I showed him what I had left all over the bedroom: lacy lingerie tucked under the pillows, massage oils, certain leather accessories, battery-operated toys, and even an adult TV queue filled with blush-worthy titles.
Jake’s face went pale. “My mother saw all that?”
“Every. Single. Thing.” I grinned. “If she wanted our private space, she had to experience just how private it is.”
Jake’s silence lasted only a moment before he burst into uncontrollable laughter. “You’re evil. Evil and brilliant!”
The rest of their visit was peaceful. Monica and Frank stayed quietly in the guest room, barely leaving it except for meals.
When they finally left, Monica gave me a stiff hug at the door. “The guest room was… quite comfortable after all.”
“I’m so glad,” I replied sweetly. “It’s yours whenever 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 slept with the satisfaction of victory. Some might call it petty revenge, but I called it education.
And judging by the text Jake got the next day—We’ve booked a hotel for Christmas—my lesson had finally stuck. Permanently.