Every time my in-laws came over, it was like a storm had hit our house. My mother-in-law, Monica, had a way of taking over our space, especially our bedroom. It was always the same routine: she’d come in, push my things aside, and light her signature candles, filling the room with their overpowering scent. For years, I’d swallowed my frustration, but one day I decided enough was enough. It was time for a little revenge—a plan that would have her begging for the guest room.
The clock ticked down, and I felt the familiar knot in my stomach. In just 17 minutes, Hurricane Monica was going to make landfall.
Monica didn’t just visit—she invaded.
The moment I heard the tires crunch on the driveway, my heart sank. They were early. Monica was always early, never playing by the rules. My husband, Jake, peered through the blinds with a sigh.
“They’re early,” he muttered, his voice tinged with resignation.
I gave him a half-smile, trying to hide my dread.
“Ready for the storm?” I asked, as if it was a joke.
Jake squeezed my hand, his smile attempting to reassure me. “We’ve weathered worse.”
But had we? Had we really?
For five long years, I’d watched as Monica strolled right into our bedroom like she owned the place, dropping her luggage on our bed. My toiletries would be shoved aside, my skincare products tossed into the bathroom cabinet. She’d bring in her perfumes, her makeup, her overwhelming scented candles, filling the room with heavy, cloying smells. And the worst part? She’d always leave behind oily stains from her “relaxing oils” and a mess I had to clean up after.
The memory of last Christmas was still fresh in my mind. I’d walked into our room to find my jewelry box emptied into a drawer. Monica’s excuse? She “needed the space.”
She’d even shoved my books under the bed—anything to make room for her stuff. Our room, which should’ve been our sanctuary, had become her personal storage unit. I was fed up.
Jake heard the doorbell ring and opened the door with his usual enthusiasm. “Mom! Dad! So great to see you!”
Monica glided in like royalty, air-kissing both of Jake’s cheeks before turning her icy gaze on me. She scanned me up and down, like she was trying to figure me out—or perhaps just dismiss me altogether.
Her husband Frank trailed behind, his usual quiet self, lugging their luggage.
“Always lovely to see you both,” Monica said, her tone light but distant. “Won’t you brew some coffee while we get settled? Traveling is so tiring.”
Before I could respond, she was already making her way down the hall. I exchanged a desperate glance with Jake, but we both knew there was nothing he could do. He was a lion in every aspect of life, except when it came to his mother.
Jake called after her, trying to sound casual, “Mom, we’ve set up the guest room for you this time.”
Monica paused for a moment, turning slowly, her smile a little too sharp. “Oh, that’s sweet, but you know how my back gets on those guest beds. You young people can handle it.”
And with that, she continued on, heading straight for our bedroom.
I’d tried everything to keep her out over the years. At first, there were the gentle hints—“The guest room has a better view.” Then, the direct requests—“We’d prefer to keep our room private.” But each time, Monica just shrugged them off with a dismissive comment.
“Stop being dramatic; it’s just a room,” she’d say, as if it were no big deal.
“Maybe if you had better guest rooms, we wouldn’t need yours,” she’d once suggested, like our entire house existed just for her.
For five years, I played along. I’d strip our bedroom of anything personal, give up my space, and spend their visits feeling like a guest in my own home. At night, Jake would whisper apologies, promising to talk to his mom “next time.”
But this time was different. Something in me snapped.
The night before they arrived, I called Monica. I was firm. “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 replied, her voice dripping with condescension.
I wasn’t going to let her win this time. I had a plan.
The next morning, I called out to her as she marched down the hallway. “There’s a new mattress on the guest bed. You really will be more comfortable there,” I said, barely able to hide my smile.
She barely responded before rushing to our bedroom.
When I got home later, sure enough, Monica had already claimed our space. Her suitcase was wide open on our bed, clothes hanging in my closet, and the heavy floral scent of her perfume filled the air. My skincare products were shoved to the side to make room for her collection of lotions and oils. And of course, the candles were lit, their overwhelming scent taking over the room.
I stood in the doorway, pretending to be surprised. “The guest room gets too much morning sun,” Monica declared, as though it was no big deal. “It’s better for young people like you to adjust. We’ll stay here.”
I smiled sweetly. “Of course. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
Monica’s eyes narrowed, a flash of confusion crossing her face. She wasn’t expecting compliance. She was expecting a fight.
That evening, we had a tense dinner. Monica criticized my cooking, saying it was “a bit too spicy,” my wine choice was “somewhat acidic,” and even the dishware was “charming, in a rustic way.” I met each barb with a calm smile, my patience growing as the night went on. Jake kept looking at me, puzzled by my strange calm, but I just squeezed his hand under the table.
Later, after we’d retreated to the guest room, Jake whispered, “What’s going on? You’re acting so calm.”
I slid under the covers and smiled. “Let’s just say I made some preparations.”
“What kind of preparations?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern.
“Nothing illegal,” I reassured him. “Just a little lesson in boundaries.”
We fell asleep to the sounds of Monica’s television blaring through the walls, another one of her charming habits.
The next morning, I woke early to make coffee and prepare breakfast. As I hummed, arranging pastries on a plate, Jake joined me, still bewildered by my good mood.
At exactly 7:43 a.m., Monica stormed into the kitchen, her face pale, her lips pressed tight. She moved stiffly, as if embarrassed beyond words. Frank trailed behind her, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
She didn’t touch the coffee I offered. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
After an agonizing silence, Monica finally spoke, each word strained, as if it caused her physical pain. “We’ll take the guest room. Please.”
I tilted my head innocently. “Oh? I thought you loved the master bedroom?”
Monica flinched, her eyes darting away. “We changed our minds.”
Jake, who’d been taking a bite of toast, suddenly started coughing, trying to hide his laughter. I patted his back a bit too hard.
“The guest room gets that lovely morning light,” I continued sweetly. “I just changed the sheets. I can help you move your things if you’d like.”
“No!” Monica said, her voice sharp. “No, thank you. We can manage.”
They rushed off to the guest room, where they spent the next hour quietly transferring their things. Every time I caught a glimpse of Monica, her face was still ashen, her eyes avoiding mine.
That evening, after they’d retreated to their new quarters, Jake cornered me in the kitchen.
“Okay, what exactly did you do?” he whispered, his voice a mix of horror and admiration.
I grinned, trying to hide my excitement. “Remember that shopping trip I took downtown?”
His eyes widened. “You didn’t.”
“I did. And I added a few things from a website with overnight delivery,” I said with a wink. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
I barely held back my laughter as I showed Jake the lacey lingerie I’d hidden beneath the pillows and the adult toys I’d “accidentally” left in the bathroom.
His face turned white. “Oh my God.”
“There’s more,” I whispered with a devilish grin.
The bedroom looked normal at first glance, but I had secretly placed massage oils, leather accessories, and items that needed batteries all around the room. I’d even filled the TV queue with movies that would make a sailor blush.
Jake couldn’t form words. “My mother saw all this?”
“Every. Single. Piece,” I said, my voice full of satisfaction.
He laughed so hard that I had to shush him.
“The rest of the visit was smooth sailing. Monica and Frank stayed firmly in 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 tightly, as if the words tasted like poison.
“I’m so glad,” I replied, stepping back. “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 slipped into bed with a smile of satisfaction. Some might call it petty revenge, but I called it a necessary education in boundaries.
And judging by the text Jake got the next day—saying they booked a hotel for Christmas—I’d say the lesson had stuck. Permanently.