Whenever my in-laws came to stay, my bold and overbearing mother-in-law would immediately claim our bedroom, brushing aside my belongings and filling the air with the scent of her favorite candles. Eventually, I decided I’d had enough. It was time to teach her a lesson that would make her beg for the guest room.
I watched the clock nervously, counting down the minutes until Monica — a force of nature in her own right — would arrive.
Monica wasn’t just dropping by; she was launching a full-scale occupation, and her favorite battlefield was always our bedroom.
“They’re early,” Jake muttered, peeking through the blinds.
A familiar silver car crept into the driveway—ten minutes ahead of schedule. Of course. Monica had never met a rule she didn’t break.
I adjusted my shirt and pasted on a smile that I hoped looked genuine.
“Ready for the hurricane?” I joked.
Jake squeezed my hand. “We’ve survived worse.”
Had we, though?
For five long years, I’d watched Monica barge into our bedroom the moment she stepped inside. Her suitcase always landed squarely on our bed, bursting open like a suitcase bomb.
She shoved our personal items into drawers or cabinets to make way for her overflowing collection of lotions, makeup, and perfumes. Her candles burned relentlessly, leaving behind cloying fragrances and, worse, oil stains.
I still winced remembering last Christmas, when she dumped the contents of my jewelry box into a drawer just so she could have more space.
She would push my books under the bed, rearrange our closet, and leave the room looking like a storm had blown through it.
The doorbell rang. Jake opened the door with rehearsed warmth. “Mom! Dad! Come in!”
Monica swept through the entryway like royalty, kissing both of Jake’s cheeks while giving me a glance that was equal parts judgment and indifference.
Her husband Frank followed meekly, towing their luggage behind him.
“How lovely to see you,” she said breezily. “Would you mind putting on a pot of coffee while we get situated? Travel takes such a toll.”
Before I could say a word, she was already halfway down the hall. I shot Jake a pleading look. He nodded—his silent vow to step in.
But I knew better.
Jake could be assertive in every area of life—except with his mother.
“Mom,” he called after her, hesitantly, “we’ve got the guest room ready for you this time.”
Monica turned around slowly, giving him a smile that reminded me of a cat toying with a mouse. “How thoughtful. But you know how my back gets with those mattresses. You two are young—you’ll be fine.”
And with that, she continued her march into our bedroom.
Over the years, I’d tried everything. Subtle hints like, “The guest room has a better view,” followed by direct statements such as, “We’d really prefer to keep our bedroom private.”
Her response? A dismissive wave and, “You’re overreacting. It’s just a room.”
Once, she even said, “Maybe if your guest rooms were more comfortable, I wouldn’t need the master.”
I always caved. Every visit, I stripped away anything too personal and handed over our room while I camped out elsewhere in my own home. Jake would mumble apologies in the guest bed, promising to “talk to her next time.”
But this time, something in me snapped.
The night before their arrival, I called Monica and made it clear: “THE GUEST ROOM IS READY. IT’S CLEAN, COZY, AND PRIVATE. WE’RE KEEPING OUR ROOM TO OURSELVES.”
Her response? “We’ll see when we get there, dear,” laced with syrupy condescension.
So I came up with a little plan, just in case.
“There’s a new mattress in the guest room—you’ll be so comfortable,” I said loudly as she disappeared down the hall. A subtle warning. One she didn’t catch.
Then I left for work.
When I came home later, the inevitable had already happened. Monica had made herself at home in our bedroom. Her suitcase lay wide open across the bed, her clothes already occupying space in my closet.
The air was thick with her signature perfume, intensified by the three candles she had lit. My skincare had been shoved aside to make way for her arsenal of beauty products.
As I stood in the doorway, Monica looked around proudly, as if she’d conquered new territory.
“The guest room gets too much sun in the morning,” she said with finality. “You kids don’t mind adjusting. We’ll stay in here.”
Perfect.
“Of course,” I replied sweetly. “Whatever makes you most comfortable.”
For a moment, she looked confused. She’d come ready for a fight, not surrender.
Dinner that evening was filled with the usual Monica flair: passive-aggressive critiques of my cooking (too spicy), the wine (too sharp), and even the plates (rustic, but charming).
I met each jab with a calm, serene smile. Jake, increasingly puzzled, kept glancing at me, and I just gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
That night, while Monica and Frank settled into our room, Jake and I headed to the guest bedroom.
“Alright, what’s going on?” he whispered. “You’re being… unsettlingly calm.”
I slid into bed. “Let’s just say I planned ahead.”
“What kind of plan?” he asked, nervous.
“Nothing illegal,” I reassured him. “Just a lesson in respecting boundaries.”
We eventually drifted off, Monica’s TV blaring from the other room like usual.
The next morning, I was up early, humming as I brewed coffee and arranged pastries. Jake joined me, still unsure of my strange good mood.
At exactly 7:43 a.m., Monica entered the kitchen, looking pale and shaken.
She didn’t make eye contact. Frank looked like he’d seen something unspeakable.
She stood stiffly in the doorway, silent and awkward, until she finally choked out the words: “We’ll take the guest room. Please.”
I tilted my head, all innocence. “Really? But I thought you loved the master bedroom?”
Her eyes darted away. “We changed our minds.”
Jake, mid-toast, began choking from holding in laughter. I gave his back a few firm pats.
“The guest room does get that nice morning light,” I said cheerfully. “And I just changed the sheets. Want help moving your stuff?”
“No!” she blurted. “No, thank you. We’ve got it.”
They shuffled down the hall and spent the next hour quietly hauling their belongings out of our room.
I caught glimpses of Monica’s face—haunted and mortified.
Later that evening, once they’d retreated early to their new quarters, Jake cornered me in the kitchen.
“Okay, seriously,” he whispered. “What did you do?”
I grinned. “Remember when I went shopping at that little boutique downtown?”
His jaw dropped. “You didn’t.”
“I did. And I added a few overnight online orders.”
I motioned for him to follow.
Barely able to contain my giggles, I showed him the delicate lingerie I’d hidden under the pillows and the collection of adult items I’d placed in the bathroom.
His face went ghost-white. “My mother saw all this?”
“Oh yes. Every bit of it,” I said proudly. “I figured if she wanted our private space, she should really understand just how private it is.”
For a long second, Jake was speechless—then he burst out laughing so hard I had to shush him.
“You’re diabolical,” he gasped. “Diabolical and brilliant.”
The rest of their stay was blissfully uneventful.
They remained firmly tucked into the guest room. When it was time to leave, Monica gave me a stiff hug.
“The guest room turned out to be quite comfortable,” she said, tight-lipped.
“I’m thrilled to hear that,” I replied sweetly. “It’ll be ready for you next time.”
As their car pulled away, Jake wrapped an arm around me. “You realize she may be scarred for life.”
“Good,” I said, leaning against him. “So was I, every time she barged into our space.”
That night, I slept like a queen in her rightful bed.
Some might call it petty.
I call it boundary-setting with flair.
And based on the text Jake got the next day—“Booked a hotel for Christmas”—I’d say the message finally sank in.
Permanently.