Every time my in-laws visited, Monica would sweep into our home like she owned the place—especially when it came to our bedroom. Without asking, she’d march right in, shove aside my personal things, light her overly perfumed candles, and essentially claim the space as hers. After years of this treatment, I decided enough was enough.
“The guest room is all ready for you,” I told her cheerfully when they arrived for their weekend visit.
Monica’s lips curled into that familiar smirk. “We’ll see about that.”
Sure enough, when I returned from running errands, I found her unpacking in our master bedroom. She didn’t even pretend to be embarrassed when I stood in the doorway.
“The guest room gets too much sun,” she declared, arranging her toiletries on my dresser. “We’ll stay here.”
“Of course,” I replied with a sweetness that should have warned her. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”
That evening, dinner proceeded with its usual tension. Monica critiqued my cooking (“a bit too spicy”), my wine selection (“somewhat acidic”), and our dishware (“charming, in a rustic way”). I met each barb with a serene smile while my husband Jake shot me questioning glances.
Later, as we prepared for bed in the guest room, Jake whispered, “What’s going on? You’re being strangely calm about all this.”
I slipped under the covers. “Let’s just say I made some preparations.”
“What kind of preparations?” His eyes widened with concern.
“Nothing illegal,” I assured him. “Just a little lesson in boundaries.”
We fell asleep to the sound of Monica’s television blaring through the walls—another of her charming habits.
The next morning, I woke early to make coffee. Jake joined me, still puzzled by my good mood but willing to play along.
At precisely 7:43 a.m., Monica stormed into the kitchen looking like she’d seen a ghost. Her face was ashen, her lips pressed into a thin line. Frank shuffled behind her, staring intensely at the floor.
She didn’t touch the coffee I offered. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
After an unbearable silence, she finally spoke, each word forced out like it physically hurt. “We’ll take the guest room. Please.”
I tilted my head innocently. “Oh? I thought you loved the master bedroom?”
Monica flinched visibly. “We changed our minds.”
Jake, who had been taking a bite of toast, suddenly started coughing, clearly trying to suppress laughter.
“The guest room gets that lovely morning light,” I continued pleasantly. “And I’ve just changed the sheets. I can help you move your things if you’d like.”
“No!” Monica said, too quickly. “No, thank you. We can manage.”
They excused themselves and hurried back toward the bedroom, where they spent the next hour quietly transferring their belongings to the guest room.
That evening, after Monica and Frank had retreated early, Jake finally 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 could barely contain my laughter as I described the elaborate scene I’d created: lacy lingerie tucked beneath the pillows, adult toys “accidentally” left in plain sight in the bathroom, massage oils and interesting leather accessories throughout the room, and a TV queue filled with titles that would make anyone blush.
“My mother saw all this?” Jake looked like he might faint.
“Every single piece,” I couldn’t hide my satisfaction. “I figured if she wanted our most private space, she should understand exactly how private it is.”
He was quiet for a moment before bursting into laughter so loud I had to shush him.
“You’re evil,” he gasped between breaths. “Absolutely evil. And brilliant.”
The rest of their visit passed in blessed peace. Monica and Frank stayed firmly within the boundaries of the guest room. When they left three days later, Monica hugged me stiffly at the door.
“The guest room was quite comfortable after all,” she said tightly.
“I’m so glad,” I replied as I stepped back. “It’s yours whenever you visit.”
As their car pulled away, Jake wrapped his arm around my waist. “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 the satisfaction of a battle well won. Some might call it petty revenge, but I called it a necessary education in boundaries.
And judging by the text Jake received the next day saying they’d booked a hotel for Christmas, the lesson had stuck. Permanently.
