I walked through the door, hoping for the usual calm of my apartment, a haven I’d grown to love. But what I found was something I couldn’t have prepared for. There, in my bathroom, was my mother-in-law, Linda. She was soaking in my bathtub, surrounded by my candles, using my bath gel, and wrapped up in my towel.
That’s when it hit me. She hadn’t just moved in—she’d taken over. I could almost hear the words echo in my head: “This is my space now.”
I smiled, trying to keep my calm, but inside? Well, let’s just say I got creative.
I had loved our life.
I really, really did.
There was something deeply comforting about the way our apartment smelled of vanilla and cleanliness. The way the sunlight always hit the kitchen counter just right at exactly 4 PM. The quiet after work, when no one was talking, no TV was blaring, and it was just me with the soothing sound of my espresso machine bubbling away. Our space was peaceful. Predictable. It was mine.
Then Daniel, my husband, walked into the laundry room with that look on his face—the one husbands get when they know they’re about to ruin your day.
I was standing there, folding socks with pride, when he cleared his throat.
“Babe… we need to take in my mom for a few days.”
I paused, holding one of his socks in mid-air.
“She okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. But her building had a pipe burst. Her whole apartment is flooded. It’ll be just a week. Maybe less.”
A week. I sighed and nodded. What else could I do? I wasn’t heartless.
“I’ll survive,” I muttered, half under my breath.
He kissed my cheek.
“You’re the best.”
I thought I could handle it. I was wrong.
By day two, our apartment had transformed into something barely recognizable. And not in a “wow, this makeover is cute” kind of way.
All my framed photos were gone. Completely gone. Replaced with Linda’s sepia-toned portraits of herself. And her first husband, Daniel’s dad (God rest his soul). And her friend Carol from the hospital. And a picture of a Chihuahua that looked like it had been dead since the Clinton era.
And then there was the smell. It lingered in every room. A mixture of reed diffusers in the bathroom, little perfume balls on my vanity, and even a pouch of potpourri—sitting in my underwear drawer.
Still, I didn’t say anything.
Linda was a guest.
Until one night.
I walked into the bathroom, ready to finally relax after a long day. But when I opened the door, I froze.
There she was. Standing in front of the mirror, rubbing something into her chest. It was my precious, ridiculously expensive, “only for special occasions” cream. The one I’d ordered from New York like it was a gift from royalty.
“Oh, Emily! This cream is divine! Where did you get it?”
I felt my jaw drop, but no words came out.
“It’s like silk!” she continued, squeezing out more of it. “You have such amazing taste.”
She didn’t ask. She didn’t hesitate. She just took it. Helped herself, without a second thought.
I smiled, nodded, and said nothing. But inside? I was fuming. This was crossing a line.
This was still tolerable… just barely.
But the next day, everything changed.
I had one of those days—emails, phone calls, back-to-back meetings, and a lunch with my manager that was filled with passive-aggressive comments. All I wanted was some peace. A quick shower. A few minutes alone to just breathe.
I slipped off my shoes, turned on the kettle, and then froze.
Singing. High-pitched, cheerful singing. The sound was coming from our bedroom.
I followed it, cautiously. The door to our ensuite bathroom was cracked open, and steam was billowing out.
Then the scent hit me—the unmistakable, sweet, tropical fragrance of MY passionfruit bath gel.
I pushed the door open.
And there she was—Linda. In MY tub, surrounded by candles, MY candles, the steam swirling around her like some kind of spa commercial. She had MY bath brush, MY scrub, and MY purple towel folded neatly beside her like she had her own personal butler.
“Emily!” she squealed, completely unfazed. “I thought you were already asleep!”
I just stood there, speechless.
“Linda… this is our private bathroom,” I said, my voice trembling with frustration.
She waved a hand through the steam, like I was making a big deal over nothing.
“Oh, come on. We’re both women. You’re not using it right now, and this tub is so much nicer than the guest one.” She picked up MY rose scrub like we were about to have a spa night together.
“I didn’t think you’d mind. We girls share everything, right?”
I turned and walked out, leaving her there. I couldn’t take it anymore.
That evening, I calmly told Daniel.
He was slurping his soup, looking unfazed, as usual. “She probably just needed a moment to herself. You know how she is. Besides, don’t women… do that? Share things?”
I stared at him.
“You think this is normal?”
“Well, it’s not not normal,” he shrugged.
I stared at him long enough that he finally noticed.
“Fine,” I said, walking to the drawer and pulling out the old key to our bedroom. I had never used it before, but today? I felt like it was the time.
At least, that’s what I thought.
The next morning, I discovered locks mean nothing when the intruder already believes she owns the place.
It was supposed to be my Saturday. My one sacred day off. No emails. No meetings. No small talk.
Just me, a yoga mat, lemon water, and the soft sound of Tibetan bells on my favorite playlist.
Until I heard it. Laughter. Music. The clink of glasses. Footsteps, a whole lot of them, in heels.
“No. No, no, no,” I whispered to myself.
I grabbed my hoodie and padded barefoot down the stairs, hoping maybe it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
But when I turned the corner into the living room, my zen was shattered.
It looked like a senior prom mixed with bingo night.
There were at least six people—four older women in glittery tops and far too-bold lipstick, two silver-haired men in suspenders sipping wine. And at the center of it all…
Linda.
Waltzing. With a tray of cheese cubes and mini crackers.
And what was she wearing? MY blouse.
The one I bought for my best friend’s birthday—silky, deep blue, low-cut but elegant. I hadn’t even taken the tags off until the day before when I steamed it and hung it in the hall closet.
I felt like I might pass out.
“Emily, darling!” Linda beamed, twirling around with a giggle. “We started without you! Come, meet everyone!”
I stood frozen, hair a mess, barefoot in my yoga top. One of the older gentlemen approached me, bowing slightly.
“Care for a dance, my lady?”
Before I could respond, he took my hand and spun me once. Twice. And I stumbled right into a woman’s sequin-covered chest.
She gave me a look—cold, disapproving.
“Linda, darling… And who is this? What’s she doing in your house?” she asked, eyeing me like I was some kind of intruder.
I pulled away gently, grabbed Linda, and marched her into the kitchen, still clutching my lemon water like it was a weapon.
“What is this?” I hissed.
“A party! Just a little something to lift everyone’s spirits. You weren’t using the living room anyway!” Linda said, shrugging.
“In my blouse? In my house?” I shot back.
She gave me a look—sweet, almost maternal. “I told them it was my home. You know, to avoid questions. They wouldn’t have come if I said I was staying with my son and his wife. I just wanted to feel like a hostess again.”
“And the blouse?”
“It was just hanging there. I thought, why not?”
“Everyone out. Now.”
She tilted her head, her voice turning syrupy.
“Oh Emily, don’t be dramatic. What will Daniel say? Kicking his poor mother out after all she’s been through?”
Her voice was so sweet, it could’ve been syrup.
“He’ll be so disappointed.”
I smiled.
“Fine. They can stay.”
“Really?” she asked, a glint of triumph in her eyes.
“Absolutely,” I said, almost amused. “Make yourselves at home.”
But inside, something else sparked.
Linda hadn’t seen me in action yet.
She hadn’t seen me take her little party through Daniel’s office.
Let’s just say… some people explore museums. I let her friends explore our home.
Linda was about to find out what it felt like when someone took what was hers.
The next morning, the tension was palpable.
Daniel, holding a bottle of his cologne, was standing in the kitchen.
“Emily! Why is my cologne bottle empty?!”
I stirred my coffee slowly. “The brown one?” I asked, not even looking up.
His voice was strained, holding the bottle like it had personally betrayed him.
“This was almost full! Now it’s bone dry. What happened?”
I tilted my head slightly. “Oh. That might’ve been Thomas?”
“Thomas?”
“Yeah. One of your mom’s gentlemen friends. He said the scent reminded him of his wilder days in Paris. He may have gone a little overboard.”
Daniel stared at me blankly.
“He used my cologne?”
“He seemed really enthusiastic,” I said with a sweet smile.
Without another word, he stormed off. Thirty seconds later, I heard his voice echoing down the hall.
“My ties! One of my tie pins is bent! Who’s been in my tie drawer?!”
“Oh no,” I said sweetly, “maybe the gentlemen got curious. You know, your collection impressed them.”
He looked at me like I had just microwaved his favorite record player.
And then, of course, Linda strolled in.
“Good morning, sweeties! Isn’t the air just delicious today?”
Daniel rounded on her.
“Mom. Did your guests go through my stuff?”
“Oh, sweetheart, of course not. They’re perfectly respectful!”
I flashed a sweet smile at Daniel.
“Did you take the car out yesterday?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
I widened mine innocently.
“Me? No. I thought about getting it washed, but I was too tired. I left the keys on the hallway shelf.”
Pause.
“Oh no. Oh no. They were admiring the car yesterday. Your mother’s friends…”
And just like that, the truth came out.
Daniel was fuming as I just smiled, knowing Linda had crossed a line she never even saw coming.
By noon, Daniel was folding Linda’s cardigans like an offering, while I had a little chat with her.
“Oh, Linda,” I said sweetly, “By the way… while you were sunbathing by the pool, I gave the gentlemen a proper tour of the house. You inspired me—it felt good to let others experience things that aren’t technically theirs.”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
When Daniel returned, he was exhausted, like a man who had survived a battle he didn’t ask for.
I let him rest. Only once he was upstairs did I allow myself to smile.
Because the house… it was still mine.
