When my mother-in-law moved in, she refused to lift a finger, claiming she was just a “guest” in our home.
Instead of kicking her out, I got creative and gave her the full VIP treatment until she couldn’t take it anymore.
I never expected my mother-in-law to be a neat freak, but I also didn’t expect to become 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 a weekend together, she had criticized everything from my cooking to the way I folded towels.
“Just until she figures things out,” Jason promised, like that made it any better.
“How long is ‘a little while’?” I asked, already regretting the conversation.
He shrugged. “A couple of weeks?
Maybe a month?”
I sighed, knowing I was going to regret this. “Fine. But we need ground rules.”
“Of course,” Jason agreed without hesitation, which was mistake number one—thinking he would help enforce anything.
Linda moved in the following weekend with three suitcases, a collection of houseplants, and zero respect for personal space.
At first, I convinced myself it wouldn’t be so bad.
She unpacked, filled my kitchen with organic tea she never drank, 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 painfully clear that Linda was not just a temporary guest. 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 constantly smeared with makeup and fingerprints, a daily reminder that she had no intention of wiping anything down.
Laundry?
Oh, she didn’t do her own. Instead, she casually tossed her clothes into my hamper, as if I was just dying to wash her sweatpants along with my work blouses.
I tried to be nice about it.
“Hey, Linda, do you mind tossing your towel in the hamper?”
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 the home I paid for.
Meanwhile, Jason was absolutely 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 go.
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, already craving the one thing that would make me feel human—my special coffee, the expensive brand I bought just for myself as a small indulgence.
And there she was.
Linda, sitting at my table, sipping from my favorite mug, drinking the last cup.
I stared at her, willing myself to stay calm, but then my gaze drifted to the sink. I saw three plates, a coffee mug, crumbs everywhere, an entire disaster zone left for me to clean up.
I took a slow, 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 started forming 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 while 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?”
“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, giggling at videos while the rest of us tried to sleep. That’s when 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 but 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, oblivious 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.”
The second I heard her outraged gasp, I knew—this was going to be good.
Sunday morning, I was halfway through my first sip of coffee when I heard it—an outraged gasp from down the hall.
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?
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