When my future mother-in-law invited me over for tea, I thought it would be a sweet little bonding moment before the wedding. You know—sharing stories, maybe even some advice about marriage. But instead, she slid a list across the table. A list of 25 luxury gifts I was supposed to buy her. One for each year she claimed she “invested” in raising her son, Jake.
And right then, I started wondering: What kind of family am I really marrying into? And how far is this woman willing to go?
You know that uneasy feeling when someone smiles at you but your whole body screams: danger, danger, danger?
That’s exactly how I felt when Linda, my future mother-in-law, called me out of the blue—three weeks before the wedding.
Jake and I had been together for almost three years, engaged for six months. His family always seemed mostly normal. Nice enough. But there was one thing about Linda—she still called Jake her “baby boy.” And I once saw her cut his steak for him at a family barbecue.
Yeah. A grown man. Steak cut into bite-sized pieces by his mommy.
I told myself she was just overprotective and tried my best to get along.
But then came the phone call.
“Sweetheart,” Linda cooed, her voice dripping with syrup so fake it almost gave me cavities, “I was hoping we could have a little woman-to-woman chat before the big day. Why don’t you come over for tea tomorrow afternoon?”
My gut told me to say no. But I plastered on a smile and said, “Sure, sounds good.” Maybe it was my chance to finally bond with her.
The next day, I stood at her spotless doorstep, bottle of wine in hand, pep-talking myself: It’s just tea. You’ll survive. Smile. Be polite. Don’t lose it.
Linda opened the door in a perfectly pressed cardigan. She wore that smile—you know, the kind that looks warm from far away, but gets icier the closer you get.
“Come in, dear,” she said, guiding me into her beige living room. Beige walls, beige couches, beige rugs. Even the air smelled beige. “I’ve made chamomile.”
We sat, china cups in hand. I expected talk about flowers, the cake, maybe some embarrassing Jake stories.
Instead, Linda reached into a drawer, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and slid it across the table like it was a peace treaty.
“What’s this?” I asked, picking it up.
“Oh, just a little something I put together for you,” she said, sipping her tea with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
I unfolded it. My heart skipped. My jaw nearly dropped into my teacup.
It was a list.
Linda’s 25 “Must-Have” Gifts Before the Wedding.
- Louis Vuitton Neverfull MM handbag
- Cartier Love bracelet
- Tiffany diamond pendant
And it just kept going. Gucci silk scarf. Hermès perfume. Spa weekends. Chanel No. 5. Apple Watch. First-class tickets to Hawaii. A freaking trip to Napa.
I blinked. Was this real life?
“Linda,” I said with a nervous laugh, “what exactly is this?”
She looked at me like I’d just asked what two plus two was. “That’s your repayment list, sweetheart. One gift for every year I invested in raising Jake.”
“…I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re getting a finished product,” she said calmly, “thanks to the work I put into raising him. Motherhood can’t truly be priced, of course. But in this case, I have. And I think you’ll find it’s quite reasonable.”
Reasonable? My eyes scanned the bottom of the list. Diamond earrings. Vintage Dom Pérignon. And finally—“A professionally filmed ‘thank you’ video.”
I nearly choked.
“Linda,” I said, struggling to stay calm, “marriage isn’t about… buying someone’s child. Jake and I are building a life together. I don’t owe you payment for raising your own son. Nobody mentioned I’d be paying a dowry!”
Her smile didn’t even twitch. “If you can’t honor the years I spent raising him, maybe you don’t value family the way we do. If you’re serious about joining this family, a little appreciation will prove it.”
I left her house with the crumpled list in my purse and a splitting headache.
At home, Jake was cooking dinner. “How was tea with Mom?” he asked cheerfully.
I dropped the list on the counter. “She gave me this.”
He chuckled. “Very funny. What did she really say?”
I didn’t laugh. “Jake… I’m not kidding.”
His smile faded as he scanned the list. His face shifted from confusion, to disbelief, to absolute horror.
“She can’t be serious.”
“Oh, she’s dead serious.”
He grabbed his phone right then and there. “Mom, what the hell is this?” I heard her calm voice float through the line: If she can’t honor the years I spent raising you, maybe she doesn’t value family.
Jake hung up, pale. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea…”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. But deep down, a voice whispered: What other surprises are waiting with this family?
I thought that was the end of it. Oh, how wrong I was.
Two weeks later, we were at Jake’s cousin’s engagement party. Everyone was laughing, toasting with champagne, enjoying dessert.
And then Linda stood up.
“I’d like to make a toast,” she said, glass raised. Everyone quieted.
She looked straight at me. “When you marry into a family, you don’t just marry the person. You honor the people who raised them. Some of us are still waiting on our tokens of appreciation.”
The silence was brutal. My cheeks burned like fire.
“Mom, STOP,” Jake barked, standing up. But the whispers had already started.
That was the moment I realized: Linda wasn’t just pushy. She was toxic. And she wasn’t going to stop unless I made her.
Linda’s birthday was a week away. She’d been hinting nonstop about the Cartier bracelet from her list. But I had other plans.
She wanted 25 gifts? Fine. She’d get 25 gifts.
From the dollar store.
I spent hours carefully choosing the most ridiculous items I could find:
- A plastic tiara with fake gems.
- A cat calendar (she hates cats).
- Off-brand perfume called Evening Mist that smelled like toilet cleaner.
- A chipped “World’s Best Mom” mug.
- A stress ball shaped like a hamburger.
- A bar of cheap motel soap.
- And for the grand finale? A roll of toilet paper, personalized in gold Sharpie: For all the crap you’ve put me through.
Each gift was wrapped beautifully—silk ribbons, shiny wrapping paper, tissue paper. If nothing else, I nailed the presentation.
The birthday dinner was at Linda’s favorite fancy restaurant. The kind of place where waiters refold your napkin if you stand up. Her entire extended family was there—perfect.
When dessert arrived, I disappeared and came back wheeling in a huge decorative box.
“Linda,” I said sweetly, “I wanted to give you something special. Here are 25 gifts to honor the years you spent raising Jake.”
Her eyes gleamed. Finally, her victory.
She opened the first package. A bag of gummy worms.
Smile wobbling, she moved to the next. A mini stapler. Guests started exchanging glances.
The third package: motel soap. Someone choked on a laugh.
By the tenth gift—a rubber duck with sunglasses—the whole table was snickering.
She unwrapped fake plants, birthday candles, a bookmark with a cartoon owl. By the time she got to number 24, her smile had vanished.
Then came the final gift.
She tore off the wrapping, held up the toilet paper, and read the golden words aloud. Her face went scarlet. The restaurant exploded in laughter. Jake clapped. His dad was crying into his napkin. His sister nearly fell out of her chair.
Linda slammed the box shut. “You’re mocking me!” she hissed.
I met her gaze. “No, Linda. I honored you. You never said the gifts had to be expensive.”
She stood so fast her chair toppled, grabbed her purse, and stormed out—leaving her untouched cake behind.
The rest of the dinner? Honestly the most fun I’d ever had with Jake’s family. People whispered, “Thank you. About time someone did that.” Even Linda’s sister winked and said, “She’s had it coming for years.”
The next day, Jake told her flat out: Respect my fiancée, or don’t come to the wedding.
Her silence since then has been the best gift of all.
So yes, technically, I gave her 25 gifts. But I like to think I gave her a 26th: the gift of reality. And judging from the applause at that birthday dinner, maybe I gave the whole family one too.