Five months pregnant and glowing, I thought my life was finally perfect. Well… almost perfect.
I had my dream husband, Arnold, who still brought me coffee in bed every morning and rubbed my swollen feet when they ached. I had our little white-picket-fence house, the one we saved years to afford. The nursery was already half-painted in soft yellow since we wanted the baby’s gender to be a surprise.
Everything was coming together—except for one problem.
My mother-in-law, Martha.
Arnold was amazing—patient, funny, and always supportive of my cravings. Just last week he drove 20 minutes at midnight to buy me pickle ice cream. But when I married him and moved into his house, I also inherited Martha.
She’d been living with Arnold for three years after his father passed. At 65, she was sharp as a tack and twice as stubborn. I didn’t mind that she lived with us. What drove me insane was her lack of boundaries—especially with packages.
No delivery was safe. UPS, FedEx, Amazon—it didn’t matter. She could hear a delivery truck from a mile away. She’d sprint to the front door like she was competing in the Olympics, snatch up the box, and rip it open before I even checked the tracking.
Even when my name was written in big bold letters, she never apologized. She’d just shrug and say,
“Oh, I thought it might be something important for the house.”
Most days I swallowed my frustration, but pregnancy had made me more protective of my space. And then came the day she crossed the line.
I had been planning a surprise gender reveal party. I ordered decorations, games, and party supplies. Everything was timed perfectly so I could hide it before Arnold came home.
That afternoon, I returned from a doctor’s appointment and saw our front door wide open. My heart sank. Inside, tissue paper and confetti covered the kitchen. And there was Martha, holding up a bright blue card like she had discovered buried treasure.
“It’s a boy!” she shouted across the house to Arnold. “Can you believe it? Cecelia’s having a boy!”
My stomach dropped. My cheeks burned. That was supposed to be our special moment. Arnold and I had planned it for weeks. But now Martha had ruined it with one careless, selfish act.
I wanted to scream, but I knew Martha’s game—she thrived on drama. She loved playing the victim. If I lashed out, she’d run crying to the family: “Poor me, I was just trying to help!”
So, I said nothing. But inside, I was already plotting my revenge.
That night, while Arnold slept peacefully beside me, I opened my laptop and started shopping. Not for baby clothes this time. No, this was for Martha.
First, I ordered the biggest, loudest, most ridiculous adult toy I could find. Neon pink, with more bells and whistles than a spaceship. Guaranteed to arrive in discreet packaging—with my name clearly on the label.
Second, I ordered a glitter bomb. One of those prank envelopes that explode in sparkly chaos the moment someone opens it.
And to make things sweeter? We had a security camera at the front door. It would capture Martha’s snooping in full HD.
The next morning, I tracked those packages like my life depended on it. When the notification pinged “Delivered,” I positioned myself by the window, pretending to read a magazine while watching the porch.
The truck pulled away, leaving two packages—one box, one envelope.
Cue the performance.
Martha’s bedroom door creaked open. I heard her heavy footsteps racing to the door. She yanked it open, snatched both packages, and rushed back into her room like a thief.
For ten minutes, silence. I waited, heart pounding.
Then—a scream. A blood-curdling scream. It sounded like she was wrestling a wild animal in there. Thuds. Crashes. Chaos.
Her door opened again. This time, she moved slowly, defeated. She shuffled into the living room and dumped the packages on the table.
The scene was priceless.
The neon pink toy sat there like a glowing beacon of shame. Glitter covered everything—the rug, the coffee table, her reading glasses. Even her hair sparkled.
I strolled in with a sweet smile. “Everything okay out here?”
Martha froze, hands still dusted with glitter. “Oh, yes, dear. Just, um, cleaning up a little spill.”
I picked up the glitter bomb envelope and raised an eyebrow. “This has my name on it. Did you see who opened it?”
Her face turned red. She stammered, “I… I thought maybe it was for the house…”
“Really, Martha?” I asked softly. “Even though it says ‘Cecelia’ right here?”
Before she could answer, Arnold walked in. He stopped dead at the glitter disaster. “What in the world happened here?”
I turned to Martha, my smile razor sharp. “Why don’t you tell him? You’re the one who opened my packages.”
For once, Martha had no words. She fidgeted, mumbled, “Sorry, sorry, won’t happen again,” and rushed back to her room.
Arnold blinked, then looked at me. “Did you seriously order a glitter bomb to catch my mom snooping?”
“Maybe,” I said, trying not to grin.
He shook his head, half-laughing. “You’re terrible. And brilliant. But mostly terrible.”
From that day on, every package stayed untouched on the porch until I picked it up. Martha suddenly had no interest in “helping.”
But, of course, she tried to save face. She spread gossip to the extended family, saying, “I was just helping with packages and found… well, something very inappropriate for an expectant mother.”
For two days, I worried people might believe her. Arnold’s cousin Jenny even texted:
“Hey girl, heard there was some drama with packages? Mom said Martha seemed upset about something you ordered?”
That’s when I released my secret weapon—the security footage.
Arnold and I sent the clip to everyone. There was Martha, sprinting like an Olympic sprinter, grabbing my package the second it landed, then vanishing inside with it.
The family group chat went wild. Arnold’s Aunt Karen delivered the knockout blow:
“So, you snooped, stole packages, lied about it, AND tried to embarrass Cecelia? Martha, you’re lucky all you got was glitter.”
And just like that, Martha earned herself a new nickname: The Package Bandit.
As for me, every time I walk up to the porch and see a delivery sitting untouched, I can’t help but smile. That glitter bomb wasn’t just a prank—it was the day I finally won.