My mother-in-law threw a $20 bill at a gas station cashier and proudly announced she’d “helped me.” From that moment on, I became her personal chauffeur. And let me tell you, when she pushed me too far, something had to give.
Let’s just say… karma has a way of arriving in the most unexpected vehicles.
Let me take you through the longest six weeks of my life. My name is Jessica.
I’m a mom to three kids who somehow always need three completely different things at exactly the same time. My husband, Daniel, is in the military, currently two months deep into a grueling training deployment, leaving me to handle everything on my own.
That meant 12-hour nursing shifts at the hospital, school pickups, homework battles, snack demands, and a four-year-old who’s absolutely convinced she’s a dragon. Exhaustion became my constant companion. But the real test? My mother-in-law, Patricia.
Patricia is the kind of woman who thinks “bless your heart” makes any insult sound sweet.
She shows up unannounced, critiques my folding, my cooking, my life. And about six weeks ago, she asked me for a favor that seemed small—but it was the opening move in a six-week campaign of relentless demands.
“Jessica, dear,” she said over the phone, her voice syrupy with fake sweetness. “Could you possibly drive me to Linda’s lake cabin? It’s just two towns over. My car isn’t exactly reliable for long trips.”
I should have said no. But Daniel’s voice echoed in my head: “Just try to get along with Mom while I’m gone.”
“Of course, Patricia. When do you need to go?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”
The drive started out uneventfully enough. Patricia spent the first hour critiquing Linda’s new deck, the neighbors’ landscaping, and the “careless” people who didn’t maintain their homes. I bit my tongue and focused on the road.
Then, halfway there, my gas light flickered on.
“I need to stop for gas,” I said, pulling into a station.
“Well, hurry up. We’re already running behind,” she said.
Running behind? We were actually fifteen minutes early. I didn’t argue.
I stepped out, pumped gas, and walked toward the cashier. And that’s when Patricia appeared beside me, barged in, and tossed a $20 bill onto the counter.
“There!” she announced loudly. “Don’t say I NEVER help you, Jessica!”
The cashier blinked at her, confused. I felt my face turn bright red. Patricia was positively glowing with pride.
“Patricia, you didn’t have to…” I started, but she cut me off.
“Nonsense! I know money’s tight for you young people. Consider it my contribution.”
I mumbled a thanks, wishing the floor would swallow me whole. Little did I know, that single $20 would become my invisible contract, binding me to Patricia’s every whim.
Three days later, my phone rang at 7 a.m.
“Jessica, I need you to drive me to church. The early service. You can pick me up in 20 minutes.”
I was still in pajamas, coffee unmade, kids arguing over the last waffle.
“Patricia, I wasn’t planning to go to church this morning. The kids…”
“Remember, Jessica. I gave you $20 for gas. The least you can do is help me out when I need it.”
And just like that, a simple favor became a full-blown command. I didn’t argue. I drove her.
Two days later, she called again.
“Jessica, I have a doctor’s appointment at two. You’ll take me, won’t you? Gas isn’t free, you know! I already helped you once.”
I took her to the doctor.
Then the pharmacy.
“Jessica, I need to pick up my prescriptions. Don’t forget who helped you when you needed it.”
Every single favor came with a reminder about that $20 bill, as if she’d personally funded my life instead of just half a tank of gas once.
My kids noticed. My eight-year-old, Lia, whispered, “Mom, what if Grandma gives you another $20? Do we have to drive her everywhere forever?”
I laughed nervously. It wasn’t really funny. Because that’s exactly how Patricia saw it. The calls got more frequent, more demanding.
“Jessica, there’s a sale at the grocery store. Pick me up in 10 minutes.”
“Jessica, I want to visit Margaret across town. Don’t make a fuss.”
“Jessica, I’m bored. Let’s go for a drive.”
Each time I tried to say no, she reminded me of that $20.
“After everything I’ve done for you?” she’d grumble.
“Daniel would be so disappointed if he heard you refusing me.”
Daniel was hundreds of miles away. I had to handle this on my own. I kept driving her, biting my tongue, sacrificing what little free time I had.
Then came the night that changed everything.
It was a Tuesday. I’d just finished a brutal 12-hour shift at the hospital.
We’d dealt with three emergencies, two angry family members, and a broken coffee machine. My body hurt in ways I didn’t know possible. I got home at 12:30 a.m., paid the babysitter, checked the kids, and collapsed into bed still in my scrubs.
At 12:47 a.m., my phone rang. I panicked, thinking of hospital emergencies. It was Patricia.
“Hello?”
“Jessica,” she said, calm as a summer breeze. “I need you to drive me somewhere.”
“What? Patricia, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine, dear. I just need you to take me to the 24-hour convenience store.”
I blinked. “It’s almost one in the morning. What emergency could possibly require a store trip?”
“I need Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. If I don’t have them, I’ll get a headache and I won’t sleep. You don’t want me to suffer, do you?”
“You want me to drive you… for candy… at one in the morning?”
“Not just candy, Jessica. It’s a medical necessity. And don’t forget, I gave you $20 for gas. The least you can do is help me when I need it.”
Something inside me… stopped. Not snapped, not broke. Just stopped.
“I’ll be there in 15 minutes,” I said, surprisingly calm.
I left the kids at a neighbor’s, drove Patricia to the store, waited while she shopped, and drove her home, listening to complaints about the “terrible layout” of the store. I got home at 2:15 a.m., lying awake in bed, plotting.
The next morning, I called my cousin Eddie, who works at a junkyard.
“Eddie, I need a favor. Got any cars that run but look absolutely terrible? Like mine, but worse?”
He laughed. “Jess, that’s my whole inventory. What’s the plan?”
I explained, he laughed harder. “Perfect. When do you need it?”
That evening, Patricia called.
“Jessica, I need you to take me to the pharmacy. Eight o’clock. And remember…”
“I remember, Patricia. Twenty dollars isn’t pocket change. I’ll be there at eight.”
At 7:55 p.m., I arrived at her house in Eddie’s “special loaner.”
It was a car disaster masterpiece. Faded, mismatched panels, duct-taped bumper, muffler scraping the ground like a dying dragon. It backfired so loudly the neighbor, Mr. Jones, came out to see what exploded.
“Your ride, ma’am!” I called cheerfully.
Patricia’s face went through five expressions in two seconds: confusion, horror, disgust, rage, then pure horror.
“What on earth is THAT?” she shrieked.
“Oh, this? Borrowed from a friend. Very temporarily. Looks worse than mine, but don’t worry—still runs! Mostly.”
She stared at the cracked windshield, the towel-covered passenger seat, the door that screeched like a cat.
“I’m NOT getting into that thing!” she screamed.
“Why not? Brakes work. Mostly. You’ll survive.”
“People will SEE me!” she shrieked, panic rising.
“Well, you’re always telling me to be budget-conscious. I figured I should honor that $20,” I said sweetly. “Hop in! Pharmacy closes soon.”
Mr. Jones chuckled. “Nice upgrade, Jess! Real character!”
Patricia’s face was tomato-red. “This is humiliating!”
The car backfired. Again. Mrs. Chiu’s porch light came on.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Patricia said, marching back inside.
“Are you sure? What about your prescriptions?”
“They can wait. I don’t need to go in that death trap.”
“Fine! Just call me when you need another ride,” I called cheerfully.
She slammed the door. I got in Eddie’s car, backfired once more, and drove home grinning.
Patricia hasn’t asked for a ride since. Not once. She calls occasionally, but only to brag she took a taxi or got a ride from someone else. Always with a tiny edge of “see, I don’t need you anymore.”
Daniel called the next day, trying not to laugh.
“Mom called me. Said you’ve been driving around in a death trap.”
“I borrowed it from Eddie. Temporarily.”
“She said it backfired and woke the neighborhood.”
I laughed. “I broke her code of manipulation. Best $20 she ever wasted.”
My kids find it hilarious. My six-year-old wants to keep Eddie’s car “because Grandma’s face was priceless.”
Do I feel guilty? Not even a little.
People like Patricia will take everything and ask for more. That $20 wasn’t generosity—it was control. Every demand, every complaint, every guilt trip was her reminding me I “owed” her.
But obligations go both ways. No one—not even your mother-in-law—gets to treat you like hired help.
That rusty car? The best boundary I’ve ever set. Non-verbal, undeniable, and completely effective.
Patricia may cling to her $20 forever. But I have something far better: my time, my peace, and my self-respect. Worth more than any bill she ever throws at me.
So here’s the real question: how often do we let someone hold a small favor over our heads? How many times do we bite our tongue to “avoid drama”? And when do we finally decide that a little drama is worth saving ourselves?
Sometimes, the high road isn’t worth it. Sometimes, you need the low road—the one with the bad suspension, the dragging muffler, and the backfiring engine. The one that finally makes people leave you alone.
And let me tell you, it works like magic.