I agreed to let my sister-in-law move in when I was eight months pregnant. She swore it was only for a short time. Two months later, while we were out with our newborn, she deliberately wrecked our kitchen and walked away looking pleased with herself. She thought she’d gotten away with it. She had absolutely no idea what was coming.
I wish I could say I ever understood Tessa, or that there was some hidden pain guiding her actions. Maybe she always felt overshadowed by Mark. Maybe life had knocked her around so much that something inside her cracked. But none of that excused what she did.
When I was swollen, tired, and eight months along, Tessa called us crying. She’d been fired and didn’t have a penny for rent. She insisted she only needed a week, maybe two, until she got her footing again.
I stared at my belly, glanced at the half-packed hospital bag near the bed, and said what any decent person would:
“Of course, Tessa. Stay with us.”
Mark and I made up the guest room, moved boxes, cleared space. We wanted her to feel welcomed, not like she was intruding. That’s what you’re supposed to do for family.
Looking back, it was the worst decision I’d made in years.
Her “one week” quickly stretched into several. And she didn’t just stay—she practically annexed our home.
Empty coffee cups were scattered everywhere. Fast-food bags piled up on the tables. She’d watch reality TV until two in the morning, volume blasting, and then gripe the next day that the dog barked too loudly.
Whenever I gently reminded her she should probably start applying for jobs, she would wave her hand dismissively.
“Relax, mama-to-be. Stress is terrible for the baby.”
I bit my tongue so often I’m amazed it didn’t fall off. Mark kept asking me to be patient, saying Tessa was having a hard time and needed our support.
So I kept quiet. I shouldn’t have.
At 38 weeks pregnant, she still hadn’t found a job or contributed a single cent to groceries or utilities. Worse, she’d somehow discovered our DoorDash login and was ordering food like we were sponsoring her appetite.
When I finally confronted her, she smirked.
“Well, you’re eating for two,” she chirped. “I’m just keeping up.”
After our son was born, I came home from the hospital aching, exhausted, and ready to settle into life as a new mother. Instead, I walked into chaos.
The house looked trashed. Dishes piled in the sink, garbage overflowing, blankets everywhere. Tessa’s makeup cluttered the bathroom, her shoes were all over the floor, and her laptop sat smack in the center of our dining table.
I stood in the doorway clutching my newborn as my chest tightened. Mark saw my face and wrapped an arm around me.
“I’ll talk to her,” he whispered. “Let’s get you upstairs to rest.”
A week later, we finally had the talk. Mark told her kindly—but firmly—that we needed privacy with a newborn and she’d have to move out.
She exploded.
“You’re kicking family out? With a baby in the house? Unreal. You’ll regret this!”
She slammed the door so hard the walls shook.
That night I barely slept. I heard her pacing downstairs, opening cupboards, moving around. I told myself it was just my nerves and hormones.
But I should’ve trusted my instincts.
The next morning we had a pediatrician appointment. We packed the diaper bag, bundled up the baby, and left for maybe ninety minutes.
When we came home, I heard it immediately: rushing water.
“What is that?” I gasped.
Mark threw open the door and we stepped inside.
The kitchen was flooded—standing water everywhere.
I screamed.
Water covered the floor, spreading into the hallway and soaking into the carpet. Mark ran to the sink, where the faucet was still blasting full strength. Someone had stuffed towels, rags, and sponges deep into the drain.
The cabinets were ruined. The wood warped and swollen. Everything inside was soaked.
“Call Tessa,” I said, shaking.
Mark dialed her number.
“What did you do?” he demanded when she picked up. “Our kitchen is underwater!”
She responded with syrupy fake innocence.
“Oh, no idea. Maybe you two forgot to turn off the tap? You’re very distracted with the baby.”
Then she hung up.
That night I sat in bed feeding my tiny son, breathing through tears, overwhelmed by stress, exhaustion, and disbelief. Who destroys their own brother’s home? Who does that to a family with a newborn?
The cost of repairs terrified me.
The next day Mark called her again, demanding she take responsibility. She denied everything.
“You have no proof,” she said. “Stop blaming me for your mistakes. Thank goodness I moved out.”
I felt sick with anger and helplessness.
Then I remembered something.
Two days earlier, I had tested our new nanny cam. I’d set it up in a few places around the house—and left it on the kitchen shelf facing the sink.
My heart pounded as I opened the app and scrolled through the footage.
And then there she was.
Tessa.
Timestamp: 9:42 a.m.
Wearing her pink hoodie, suitcase in hand.
Smiling as she stuffed towels into the sink drain.
Turning the faucet to full blast.
Watching for a second.
Then walking out—smirking.
I felt winded. I showed the video to Mark, and the rage in his eyes scared me.
“She did it intentionally,” I whispered.
“Yes,” he said, voice like ice. “And we’ll take care of it.”
For the next few days, we acted like nothing had happened. We even texted her saying we wanted to move past everything and rebuild our relationship.
She responded instantly: “About time! 😄”
I wanted to scream. Instead, we invited her to dinner.
“It’ll be nice to sit together again,” I said sweetly.
She arrived dressed like she was starring in a low-budget soap opera—pearls, animal-print scarf, dramatic lipstick. She brought a cheap supermarket cake iced with “Family Forever.”
I almost choked laughing.
We shared dinner, made small talk, let her ramble. She looked smug and satisfied, convinced she’d manipulated us again.
When she finished dessert, I stood up.
“Tessa, we actually have something for you.”
Mark disappeared briefly and returned with a white box. On the lid, he’d written: “Solatium.”
Tessa’s eyes sparkled. “A gift? Finally!”
She opened the box, pulled out an envelope, and began removing the papers inside.
Her expression transformed.
The printed nanny cam screenshots showed:
Her blocking the sink
Her turning the faucet on
Water rising as she walked off
Under the photos was an invoice totaling $6,742 for the damage she caused—and a note in Mark’s handwriting that read:
“Consider this your permanent removal from our lives.”
Her face lost all color.
“You… filmed me?” she screeched.
I smiled. “The baby monitor did. Lucky timing.”
She leapt to her feet.
“This is ILLEGAL! You can’t do this to me!”
Mark stayed perfectly calm. “Everything we did is legal. And we sent the footage to insurance. They’ve already approved the claim. We also forwarded it to your former landlord.” He smiled thinly. “Good luck.”
Tessa sputtered, shaking with rage.
Mark glanced at his watch. “By the way, the locksmith will be here in five minutes.”
“You’re changing the locks?!” she gasped.
“Yes,” he said simply.
She threw out accusations, insults, excuses. None of it mattered.
I stood up, holding my ground for the first time in months.
“You tried to ruin our home while I was caring for a newborn. This isn’t family. This is cruelty.”
Mark picked up one of the towels she used to flood the sink and handed it to her.
“Use this,” he said softly. “Then get out.”
She grabbed her things and stormed out to the sound of her own footsteps echoing on our damp floor.
The locksmith arrived shortly after and replaced every lock in the house while I sat rocking my son, feeling lighter with every turn of the drill.
Later, Mark sat beside me. “How do you feel?”
“For the first time in months,” I said, “peaceful.”
Insurance covered almost all the repairs. We handled the rest. We haven’t heard from Tessa since, though a cousin mentioned she’s been telling people she left voluntarily because we were “too controlling.”
Sure she did.
A few weeks later, her old landlord emailed me. Tessa had used our address as a reference for a new apartment. He wanted my honest opinion.
I typed back:
“Tessa stayed with us briefly. She caused intentional water damage to our home. Documentation attached.”
He thanked me. The next day, he confirmed her application had been denied.
I didn’t feel one ounce of guilt.
Sometimes the best revenge isn’t shouting or arguing—it’s facts, steady patience, and the truth.
People show you who they are.
Eventually, you just let them live with the consequences.