When my mother-in-law moved in, she insisted she was just a “guest” and refused to lift a finger to help around the house. Instead of kicking her out, I decided to get creative. I gave her the full VIP treatment until she couldn’t handle it anymore.
I never thought my mother-in-law would be such a neat freak, but I also never imagined I’d end up becoming her personal maid.
When Jason told me his mom, Linda, had sold her condo and needed a place to stay “for a little while,” I hesitated. The last time we spent more than just a weekend together, she had criticized everything, from my cooking to how I folded towels.
“Just until she figures things out,” Jason promised, like that would make things better.
“How long is ‘a little while’?” I asked, already dreading this.
He shrugged. “A couple of weeks? Maybe a month?”
I sighed, already knowing I was going to regret this. “Fine. But we need ground rules.”
“Of course,” Jason agreed without hesitation. Little did I know, mistake number one was thinking he would actually help enforce any rules.
The next weekend, Linda arrived, bringing three suitcases, a collection of houseplants, and an utter lack of respect for personal space. At first, I tried to convince myself it wouldn’t be so bad. She unpacked, filled my kitchen with organic tea she’d never drink, and made passive-aggressive comments about how “young people these days” relied too much on microwaves instead of “real cooking.”
By the second week, it became clear—Linda wasn’t just visiting. She was a full-time problem.
She left dirty dishes on the table, promising to rinse them later, but later never came. My bathroom mirror was always smeared with makeup and fingerprints, a daily reminder that she wasn’t planning on wiping anything down.
Laundry? Forget it. She just tossed her clothes into my hamper like I was begging to wash her sweatpants along with my work blouses.
I tried to be polite.
“Hey, Linda, do you mind tossing your towel in the hamper?” I asked one morning.
She gave me a sweet, clueless smile. “Oh, honey, I’m just a guest! You wouldn’t ask a guest to do chores, would you?”
A guest. In my home. The home I paid for.
Meanwhile, Jason was useless.
“She’s my mom, babe,” he said when I vented to him. “Can’t we just let her be comfortable?”
Comfortable? She was living like royalty while I ran around cleaning up after two adults.
I swallowed my frustration and let it slide.
Until the coffee incident.
Saturday morning. My one sacred day to sleep in, the only morning I could truly relax. I shuffled into the kitchen, barely awake, craving the one thing that would make me feel human—my special coffee, the expensive brand I bought just for myself as a treat.
And there she was.
Linda, sitting at my table, sipping from my favorite mug, drinking the last cup.
I stared at her, trying to stay calm, but then my gaze drifted to the sink. Three plates, a coffee mug, crumbs everywhere. An entire disaster zone waiting for me to clean up.
I took a deep breath. “Linda, would you mind helping with the dishes today?”
She didn’t even bother looking up.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, waving a dismissive hand, “I’m sure you’ll get to it.”
Something inside me snapped. But I didn’t yell. I didn’t argue.
I smiled.
Because in that moment, a beautiful, perfect idea formed in my head.
Linda wanted to be treated like a guest? Fine. I was going to treat her exactly like one.
For the next week, I played the perfect host, smiling sweetly as I carried out my plan. I didn’t nag, I didn’t complain, and I certainly didn’t ask her to clean up after herself anymore. Instead, I made sure she got the full guest experience.
On Monday morning, Linda woke up to a neatly printed menu placed on her nightstand. At the top, in elegant script, it read:
“Welcome to the Family B&B! Please select your complimentary breakfast option.”
Underneath were three simple choices:
☕ Cereal & Milk – Served in the finest ceramic bowl.
🍞 Toast & Butter – Lightly crisped to perfection.
🍛 Chef’s Surprise – A delightful mystery from last night’s leftovers.
Linda walked into the kitchen, menu in hand, looking confused. “What’s this?” she asked.
“Oh, just a little something I put together,” I said cheerfully. “I know you’re a guest, so I figured you shouldn’t have to fend for yourself in the mornings.”
She frowned. “But where’s my omelet? You always make eggs on Mondays.”
I gave her a sympathetic look. “Oh, sorry! The upgraded breakfast package isn’t included in the complimentary stay.” I gestured to the counter. “Would you like cereal or toast?”
She huffed but took the cereal.
One small victory for me.
Linda had a little habit—she loved to watch YouTube and scroll through Facebook well into the night, laughing at videos while the rest of us tried to sleep. So, I introduced my next change.
Tuesday night, right around 11 p.m., I switched off the WiFi router.
Not five minutes later, Linda came stomping out of her room. “Emma! The internet’s not working!”
“Oh, right,” I said, stifling a yawn. “We have an automatic shutoff system now. It’s part of our house security protocol—reduces cyber threats and keeps everything running smoothly.”
She blinked. “That’s ridiculous. I was in the middle of a show!”
“Sorry, house rules! It turns back on at 7 a.m. Have a good night!”
She muttered something under her breath and stomped back to her room.
By Wednesday, I took things up a notch. Every time I cleaned up her mess, I left a laminated sign in the area:
🛑 “Housekeeping in Progress! Do Not Disturb!”
One on the bathroom mirror after wiping off her makeup smudges. Another in the kitchen after scrubbing her crusty plates. One draped dramatically over the couch where she left crumbs.
She scowled every time she saw one. “What’s with all these signs?”
“Oh, it’s just a reminder that housekeeping is an important part of any guest experience,” I said with a smile.
Her eye twitched. I almost felt bad. Almost.
By Thursday, I stopped making dinner. Instead, I left a neatly stacked pile of takeout menus in Linda’s room.
That evening, she stood in the kitchen, looking bewildered. “What’s for dinner?”
“Oh, I figured you might want to pick something yourself! Guests should have options,” I said, handing her a menu. “There’s a great Chinese place down the street. Or pizza, if you’re in the mood.”
Her lips pursed. “But you always cook.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t want to impose. Enjoy!”
Jason, of course, just grabbed a menu and went along with it, clueless as ever.
Sunday morning, Linda found an envelope on her dresser. Inside was a neatly written invoice:
🧺 Laundry Services – $50
🧼 Maid Service – $30
☕ Coffee & Breakfast Supply Fee – $20
🏨 Hotel Convenience Charge – $15
At the bottom, I’d written:
“Thank you for staying at the Family B&B! Please settle your balance by the end of your stay.”
I was halfway through my first sip of coffee when I heard an outraged gasp from down the hall. I immediately knew this was going to be good.
Seconds later, Linda stormed into the kitchen, waving the bill I had left on her dresser. Her face was red, her lips pressed so tightly together they nearly disappeared.
“What is this?” she demanded, shaking the paper at me like I had personally insulted her.
I took another slow sip of coffee. “Oh, just an invoice for your stay. Standard hospitality rates.”
Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. “I am not paying to live in my own son’s house!”
I tilted my head. “Oh? I thought you were a guest? And guests don’t stay for free, Linda.”
For a moment, she was too stunned to speak. Then she turned to Jason, who had just walked in, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Jason,” she sputtered, thrusting the bill at him. “Your wife is trying to charge me for staying here!”
Jason blinked at the paper, then at me.
“Babe,” he said slowly, “is this real?”
I smiled sweetly. “Of course not. I’m not actually charging her. I’m just following her logic. Guests don’t clean up after themselves, so they pay for service instead.”
Jason looked between me and his mother, realization dawning on him. Meanwhile, Linda’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.
“This is ridiculous!” she shrieked. “I don’t feel welcome here anymore!”
I raised an eyebrow.
And then—oh, it was beautiful—she said it.
“I guess I’ll just find somewhere else to stay!”
Jason hesitated, but I shot him a look that said, I dare you to argue. He sighed, rubbing his face.
“Mom… maybe that’s for the best.”
And just like that, Linda was gone within the week.
The house was peaceful again. No more dirty dishes left on the table. No more towels on my furniture. No more waking up to passive-aggressive comments.
Jason, finally free from his guilt, admitted, “Okay… maybe you had a point.”
And me? I poured myself a fresh cup of my special coffee, stretched out on my guest-free couch, and savored my victory.
Linda may have thought she was too special to clean up after herself. But in the end?
She cleaned herself right out of my house.
