Five months into my pregnancy, I thought life was just about perfect. I had a husband who treated me like gold—Arnold still brought me coffee in bed every morning and rubbed my swollen feet after long days. We had our cozy little house with the white picket fence we’d saved so long for, and the nursery was already half-painted a soft yellow since we wanted the baby’s gender to stay a surprise.
But one thing shattered that perfection: my mother-in-law, Martha.
Arnold’s dad had passed away years ago, and Martha had been living with him ever since. At 65, she was sharp, stubborn, and utterly incapable of respecting boundaries—especially when it came to packages.
If a delivery truck so much as slowed down near our street, she’d race to the door, snatch the box, and tear into it like it was hers. Didn’t matter if my name was stamped all over the label. Her excuse was always the same:
“Oh, I thought it might be something important for the house!”
Usually, I held my tongue. But pregnancy made me more protective—especially when it came to my space and my plans. And Martha’s snooping finally went too far the day she ruined our gender reveal.
I’d ordered decorations and party supplies, carefully planning everything so Arnold and I could share the surprise together with our families. But when I came home one afternoon, the box had already been ripped apart on the kitchen counter. Tissue paper everywhere. Martha waving a blue card like she’d won a prize.
“It’s a boy!” she shouted, announcing the news before Arnold and I ever got the chance.
That moment had been ours. Instead, she stole it with a smug grin, leaving me burning with anger. But instead of blowing up, I forced a smile and swallowed it down. I already knew how Martha worked—if I lashed out, she’d play the victim.
So, I started plotting.
That night, once Arnold was asleep, I ordered two special packages. The first? The most over-the-top, neon-pink adult toy I could find—huge, loud, and impossible to mistake for anything else. The second? A glitter bomb disguised as a plain padded envelope, the kind that explodes in a sparkling mess the second it’s opened.
Both were set to arrive the next day. Both had my name on the label.
When the delivery truck finally pulled up, I pretended to read by the window while watching closely. Sure enough, Martha came storming down the hall, grabbed the boxes, and disappeared into her room like a thief in the night.
Silence. For about ten minutes.
Then—the scream. A blood-curdling wail followed by banging and shuffling, like she was fighting off a wild animal.
When she finally shuffled out, she looked defeated. On the living room table sat both opened packages—the neon-pink monstrosity in all its glory, and glitter spread across the table, rug, even her reading glasses. It sparkled in her hair like confetti at a parade.
I strolled in casually. “Everything okay?”
She mumbled something about “a little spill,” refusing to meet my eyes. Arnold walked in just then, froze at the sight, and demanded to know what happened.
I smiled sweetly. “Why don’t you tell him, Martha? You’re the one who opened my packages.”
For once, she had no excuse. She scurried away, muttering that it wouldn’t happen again. And she was right—after that day, not a single package of mine was touched.
Of course, Martha tried to spin the story later. She told relatives I’d been ordering “inappropriate things” while pregnant, trying to make herself look like the victim. For about two days, I worried people might believe her.
But then Arnold and I pulled up the porch camera footage—clear as day, showing Martha sprinting to grab my package the moment it landed. We sent the clip to every relative she’d been gossiping to.
The group chat exploded. Arnold’s aunt summed it up perfectly:
“So, you snooped, stole packages, lied, and tried to humiliate a pregnant woman? Martha, you’re lucky all you got was glitter.”
From then on, she earned a new family nickname: The Package Bandit.
And me? Every time a box shows up on our porch now, untouched and waiting for me, I can’t help but grin. Because nothing shuts down a snoop like a glitter bomb and a little poetic justice.