Every time my in-laws visited, I dreaded the inevitable take-over of our bedroom by my mother-in-law, Monica. She’d waltz in, move my things around like they were her own, and light her signature scented candles, which would leave behind a lingering smell that I could never quite get rid of. It was always the same routine, and one day, I decided I had enough! This time, I’d have a plan that would make her beg for the guest room.
The clock ticked down with my nerves growing by the second. In just 17 minutes, Hurricane Monica would arrive.
Monica wasn’t just coming for a visit—she was about to invade our home once again, and her first target would always be our bedroom.
“They’re early,” Jake muttered, glancing through the blinds from the living room.
Monica’s silver sedan pulled into the driveway. Ten minutes early. Of course. Monica was never one to follow the rules.
I smoothed out my shirt, took a deep breath, and forced a smile.
“Ready for the storm?” I asked Jake, trying to keep my tone light.
He squeezed my hand. “We’ve weathered worse.”
Had we, though?
For the last five years, I’d watched Monica take over our room with no shame. Her luggage would be tossed onto the bed, and I’d be left to watch as she shoved my toiletries into a bathroom cabinet, making space for her own collection of makeup, perfumes, and lotions.
She’d light candles without asking, filling the air with overpowering floral scents, and leaving oily stains from her “relaxing oils.” And Christmas still stung in my memory, when I’d found my jewelry box emptied out into a drawer because “she needed the space.”
Monica wasn’t just a guest. She was a force of nature. My books? They’d be shoved under the bed, along with my feelings. I was left to feel like a guest in my own home.
The doorbell rang. Jake opened it with that practiced enthusiasm of his. “Mom! Dad! Great to see you!”
Monica breezed in, air-kissing both of Jake’s cheeks before taking a quick glance at me that somehow made me feel both invisible and entirely scrutinized.
Her husband, Frank, trailed behind her, carrying their luggage as if he didn’t mind being overshadowed by his wife’s grand entrance.
“Always lovely to see you both,” Monica remarked in her airy tone, gliding down the hall. “Would you brew some coffee while we get settled? Traveling is so tiring.”
Before I could say a word, she was already halfway down the hall. I sent Jake a desperate look, but he only nodded—his silent promise to handle it.
But we both knew better. Jake was a lion at work, but when it came to his mom, he was a kitten.
“Mom,” Jake called after her, his voice a little too weak, “We’ve set up the guest room for you this time.”
Monica paused, turned, and flashed him a smile that reminded me of a cat sizing up a mouse. “Oh, how sweet. But you know my back doesn’t do well on those guest beds. You young people can handle it.”
And just like that, she was on her way to our bedroom, as if she owned the place.
I’d tried everything. At first, it was gentle hints: “The guest room has such a lovely view.” Then, I became more direct: “We’d prefer to keep our room private.” But each attempt was met with dismissal.
“Stop being dramatic, it’s just a room,” she’d snap.
“Maybe if you had better guest rooms, I wouldn’t need to take over yours,” she’d suggest, as though our three-bedroom house was built specifically for her bi-annual visits.
I swallowed my pride for years. Every time they came, I’d clear our room of anything personal, surrender the space, and feel like a stranger in my own home. Jake would whisper apologies in the guest room each night, promising to talk to her “next time.”
But this time, something in me snapped.
The night before their arrival, I called Monica and told her firmly, “We’ve set up the guest room for you. It’s clean, cozy, and private. We’re keeping our bedroom to ourselves.”
“We’ll see when we get there, dear,” she replied, her voice dripping with condescension, as though she was already planning her defiance.
So, I prepared a little surprise.
“There’s a new mattress on the guest bed. You really will be more comfortable there,” I called after her as she entered the house.
I rushed out the door, pretending to leave for work, my heart pounding with excitement.
When I returned home later, it was no surprise to find Monica had invaded our bedroom yet again. Her suitcase was sprawled across our bed, clothes already hanging in my closet. The air was thick with her heavy floral perfume, and I could see the three scented candles she’d lit in their usual spots. My skincare products were shoved aside to make room for her extensive collection.
Monica stood proudly in the middle of the chaos, surveying her work.
“The guest room gets too much morning sun,” she said without even a hint of remorse. “It’s better for young people like you to adjust. We’re staying here.”
I smiled sweetly. “Of course. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
Monica blinked. She was clearly expecting resistance. Instead, she got a peaceful surrender.
That evening, dinner was a tense affair. Monica criticized everything—my cooking (“A bit too spicy”), my wine choice (“A little acidic”), and our dishware (“Charming, in a rustic way”).
Each criticism was met with a serene smile that grew more genuine with every word. Jake kept shooting me puzzled glances, but I just squeezed his hand under the table, maintaining my calm.
Later, after Monica and Frank retired to our bedroom, Jake and I settled in the guest room.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Jake whispered. “You’re acting too calm about this.”
I slipped under the covers. “Let’s just say I made some preparations.”
“What kind of preparations?” His voice was full of concern.
“Nothing illegal,” I assured him. “Just a little lesson in boundaries.”
We drifted off to sleep, the sound of Monica’s television blaring through the walls. Another one of her charming habits.
The next morning, I woke early, humming as I made coffee and arranged pastries on a plate. Jake joined me, still unsure of my calm demeanor.
At exactly 7:43 a.m., Monica stormed into the kitchen, looking like she’d seen a ghost. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line, and her posture was stiff with mortification. Frank, trailing behind her, stared at the floor, his usual passivity gone.
Monica didn’t even touch the coffee I offered. She refused to make eye contact.
After what felt like an eternity of silence, she finally spoke, each word clearly painful.
“We’ll take the guest room. Please.”
I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “Oh? I thought you loved the master bedroom?”
Monica flinched, her face turning an even deeper shade of red. “We’ve changed our minds.”
Jake, who had been trying to choke down a bite of toast, suddenly burst into a coughing fit, clearly struggling to suppress laughter.
I patted his back, a little harder than necessary.
“The guest room gets that lovely morning light,” I continued, my voice sweet as sugar. “And I just changed the sheets. I can help you move your things, if you’d like.”
“No!” Monica snapped, a little too quickly. “No, thank you. We can manage.”
They excused themselves and hurried back to our bedroom, where they spent the next hour transferring their belongings to the guest room. Monica’s face remained a picture of horror as she avoided looking anyone in the eye.
That evening, after they had retreated to the guest room, Jake cornered me in the kitchen.
“Okay, what exactly did you do?” he whispered, equal parts horrified and impressed.
I grinned. “Remember that shopping trip I took to that specialty store downtown?”
His eyes widened. “You didn’t.”
“I did. Plus a few things from a website with overnight delivery.” I beckoned to him with my finger. “I’ll show you.”
I barely contained my giggles as I led him to the bedroom and showed him the lacy, barely-there lingerie I’d tucked beneath the pillows, along with the adult toys I’d “accidentally” left in the en-suite bathroom.
“Oh my God,” Jake breathed, his face turning white.
“There’s more,” I whispered with a grin.
As he stared in horror, I showed him the massage oils, leather accessories, and items that required batteries. I’d even added a few TV shows to the queue that would make anyone blush.
Jake’s mouth opened and closed several times before he finally found his voice. “My mother saw all this?”
“Every. Single. Piece.” The satisfaction in my voice was unmistakable. “I figured if she wanted our most private space, she should understand exactly how private it is.”
Jake stood silent for a moment, then burst into uncontrollable laughter. I had to shush him.
“You’re evil,” he gasped between breaths. “Absolutely evil. And brilliant.”
The rest of their visit was peaceful. Monica and Frank stayed firmly in the guest room, and when they left three days later, Monica hugged me stiffly at the door.
“The guest room was quite comfortable, after all,” she said, her voice tight with forced politeness.
“I’m so glad,” I replied, stepping back. “It’s yours whenever you visit.”
As their car pulled away, Jake wrapped his arm around me. “You know she’s probably traumatized for life.”
“Good,” I said, leaning into him. “So was I, every time she invaded our space.”
That night, I slipped into bed with a satisfied smile, knowing that I had won the battle.
Some might call it petty revenge, but I called it a much-needed lesson in boundaries.
And judging by the text Jake received the next day, saying they’d booked a hotel for Christmas, I’d say the lesson had stuck. Permanently.
