When My Mother-in-Law Moved In and Refused to Do Chores, I Served Her a Taste of Her Own Medicine

When my mother-in-law moved into our home and insisted she was a “guest,” I didn’t kick her out—instead, I got creative with a plan that made her leave on her own.

I never imagined Linda, my husband Jason’s mother, would turn me into her personal maid. When Jason mentioned she needed a place to stay temporarily, I was wary. The last time we’d spent more than a weekend together, she criticized everything from my cooking to the way I folded towels.

Jason promised, “It’s just for a little while.”

“How long is that?” I asked, already dreading it.

“Maybe a few weeks,” he replied with a shrug.

I reluctantly agreed—on the condition that we set some rules. Jason agreed without hesitation, but that was his first mistake—assuming he’d actually enforce them.

Linda arrived that weekend with three suitcases, several plants, and no regard for personal boundaries. At first, I tried to stay positive. But soon, she filled my kitchen with teas she never drank, made snide remarks about “kids these days,” and left her mess everywhere.

By the second week, it was clear she had no plans to pull her weight. She’d leave dirty dishes for me to clean, her makeup smeared across the bathroom mirror, and dumped her laundry into my hamper as if I’d be happy to wash it with my clothes.

When I politely asked her to put her towels in the hamper, she smiled sweetly and said, “Oh honey, I’m just a guest. You wouldn’t expect a guest to do chores.”

A guest? In the home I owned?

Jason was no help. “She’s my mom, babe. Let’s just make her comfortable.”

So while Linda lived like royalty, I ran around cleaning up after her. I bit my tongue and tried to let it go—until one Saturday morning.

I walked into the kitchen, groggy and desperate for my special, pricey coffee—the one thing I indulged in. And there she was, sipping from my favorite mug, enjoying the last cup. The sink was a disaster of dirty plates and crumbs.

I took a deep breath and asked, “Linda, could you help with the dishes today?”

She didn’t even look up. “Oh sweetheart, I’m sure you’ll get to it.”

Something inside me snapped—but instead of yelling, I smiled. In that moment, a plan was born.

For the next week, I treated Linda like the “guest” she claimed to be.

On Monday, she woke to find a printed breakfast menu by her bed:
“Welcome to the Family B&B! Choose your complimentary breakfast option.”
Choices included:

• Cereal & Milk

• Toast & Butter

• Chef’s Surprise (aka leftovers)

Confused, she asked, “What’s this?”

“Oh, just a little something for our guest,” I said cheerfully.

“But where’s my usual omelet?” she asked.

“Sorry, that’s part of the upgraded breakfast package,” I replied with a smile. “Would you like cereal or toast?”

She reluctantly chose cereal.

Linda also stayed up late, streaming videos and keeping the house noisy. So, on Tuesday night, I turned off the WiFi at 11 p.m.

“Emma! The internet’s out!” she complained.

I yawned. “Our new security system cuts the WiFi overnight to prevent cyber threats. It comes back at 7 a.m.”

She grumbled but had no choice.

By Wednesday, I left laminated “Housekeeping in Progress” signs wherever I cleaned her messes—the bathroom mirror, the kitchen, and the couch covered in crumbs.

“What’s with these signs?” she asked, annoyed.

“Just a reminder that housekeeping is part of the guest experience,” I said sweetly.

By Thursday, I stopped cooking dinner and left a stack of takeout menus outside her room.

“What’s for dinner?” she asked.

“I thought you might enjoy choosing for yourself,” I said. “Guests should have options. There’s a great pizza place down the street.”

She looked bewildered, but Jason just grabbed a menu like it was nothing.

Then, on Sunday morning, Linda found a neatly written bill on her dresser:

• Laundry Service: $50

• Maid Service: $30

• Coffee & Breakfast Supplies: $20

• Hotel Convenience Fee: $15

At the bottom, I’d written:
“Thank you for staying at the Family B&B! Please pay your balance at the end of your stay.”

I heard her outraged gasp before she stormed into the kitchen, waving the bill. “What is this?”

I sipped my coffee. “Just standard hospitality charges for our guest.”

“I’m not paying to live in my own son’s house!” she shouted.

“Oh?” I replied. “I thought you were a guest. And guests don’t stay for free.”

Jason, finally catching on, mumbled, “Mom, maybe it’s time you found somewhere else to stay.”

And just like that, Linda packed her things and left.

The house felt peaceful again—no more dirty dishes, passive-aggressive comments, or unwanted intrusions. Jason finally admitted, “Okay… maybe you had a point.”

And me? I curled up on my clean sofa with my special coffee, savoring my victory.

In the end, Linda might have refused to clean up after herself—but she cleaned herself out of my home.