When my mother-in-law moved in during her home renovation, I thought the constant criticism of my cooking was bad enough.
But when my meals started vanishing while my husband and I were at work, and she denied being the culprit, I knew I had to find a way to expose her.
A few months ago, my mother-in-law, Gwendolyn, decided to renovate her house, starting with her kitchen. She ripped out perfectly good cabinets and tore up the old linoleum floor without thinking twice.
The issue is that she didn’t bother to budget for any of this chaos.
Even worse, the contractor kept finding new problems, adding expenses left and right. Additionally, some of their work required her to be away, as it was dangerous for her health.
Unfortunately, the renovation turned into a money pit quickly and her bank account was drying up faster than a puddle in the desert.
My husband, Sammy, and I sat at our kitchen table, staring at his phone as she explained this little situation.
First, she detailed all the new things she was adding to her house, like a better sink.
Then she revealed what she wanted from us.
“I just can’t possibly afford a hotel while the work gets done,” Gwendolyn said, using just the perfect amount of desperation in her voice to convince Sammy. “And you know how sensitive my sinuses are. I simply can’t stay in one of those budget motels.”
Just as I expected, my husband gave me that pleading puppy-dog look he always got when his mother needed something.
With a deep breath, I nodded. “Of course, Gwendolyn, you can stay with us,” I said, already regretting the words as they left my mouth.
“Oh, wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I knew I could count on my darling boy.
And you too, of course, Paulina.”
After she hung up, I told Sammy I wanted to set some ground rules in writing. I wanted to protect us. Luckily, he agreed.
I printed out some boundaries and stipulations for her stay and asked her to sign them.
Gwendolyn wasn’t too pleased about signing anything, but she didn’t have another option. Besides, we figured her stay would be a few weeks, tops. But, oh boy, were we wrong.
The weeks stretched into months, with no end to the renovation in sight.
Each update from the contractor brought new delays and complications.
But that wouldn’t be a problem if Gwendolyn’s attitude wasn’t so terrible. From the moment she arrived with her four massive suitcases, it was like living with a critical, nitpicking tornado.
Nothing I did was good enough. Every meal I cooked became an opportunity for her to remind me of my apparent shortcomings, and she always managed to do it when Sammy wasn’t around.
One evening, I’d spent hours making a pot roast with all the trimmings.
The kitchen smelled amazing, and I’d even used my grandmother’s secret recipe. After I turned off the stove, Gwendolyn peered into the pot and wrinkled her nose.
“Oh dear,” she said, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Are you sure that’s cooked through?
Poor Sammy, having to live with someone like you! How can anyone eat THIS?” She shook her head slowly. “In my day, we knew how to properly care for our husbands.”
I gripped the mixing spoon so tight my knuckles turned white.
“The meat thermometer says it’s perfect,” I replied through clenched teeth.
“Well, those things aren’t always reliable,” she sniffed, poking at the meat with a fork. “And really, Paulina, did you have to use so much garlic? Sammy won’t like it.”
Actually, this was one of my husband’s favorite dishes, but I let it go.
It was easier. But eventually, her nagging about housework pushed me to my breaking point.
It happened during yet another dinner where she’d spent 20 minutes describing how her bridge club friend Martha made the same dish, only “so much more flavorful.”
“If you don’t like my cooking,” I said, setting down my fork with a small clatter, “then you’re more than welcome to buy your own groceries and make your own meals.”
I expected World War III to break out right there in our dining room. Instead, Gwendolyn dabbed her lips with her napkin and smiled.
“What a wonderful idea,” she said sweetly. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
I frowned but continued eating.
For a few days, everything seemed fine. We had separate shelves in the fridge and separate cabinets for dry goods.
But then things started getting weird.
I’d come home from work, exhausted and starving, only to find that the leftovers I was counting on for dinner had vanished into thin air.
The first time it happened, I thought I was losing my mind. The roast chicken I’d meal-prepped the night before was gone. Even the fruit bowl I’d filled that morning was almost empty.
My husband and I were both working long hours at our jobs, so there was only one possible culprit.
But every time I tried to bring it up, Gwendolyn denied eating anything.
One evening a few days later, after discovering my leftover piece of lasagna gone, I cornered her in the kitchen. “I’ve noticed that the food I cook keeps disappearing,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Do you have any explanation for that?”
Again, she had the same excuse.
“You must be imagining things. You and Sammy probably just ate it and forgot,” she said, patting my hand condescendingly.
I knew it was her and considered why she might be hiding it. Perhaps, her money issues were worse than I thought, and she was too proud to say anything.
Well, she wasn’t too proud to live with us this long while insulting everything I did, so I shook off any sympathy I felt and focused on how I could find proof of her stealing.
That’s when I remembered her allergy to nuts and lactose intolerance.
As any good host, I had gotten rid of nuts and bought oat milk for the duration of her stay, but enough was enough.
I ran a quick errand later, stopping by the grocery store on my way home.
The next morning, I got up early and made a special casserole that I knew smelled too delicious to resist.
Into it went a generous amount of real heavy cream and a healthy sprinkle of crushed cashews. Still, I wrote a big label in red marker: “DANGER! Contains nuts and dairy!” and stuck it right on top of the dish.
I also told her about it.
“Don’t eat this,” I warned Gwendolyn before leaving for work. “It will make you sick!”
She barely looked up from her morning paper. “For the last time, I’m not the one touching your food,” she replied with a sniff.
“Remember, we agreed to keep things separate.”
I nodded, but I knew she would eat it. When I got home later that day, the scene that greeted me was hilarious, but I had to contain my amusement.
Gwendolyn stood in our kitchen, practically vibrating with rage. Her face had turned an alarming shade of red, and angry hives covered her whole body, which she kept scratching frantically.
Meanwhile, I set my purse down on the counter, taking my time.
“My goodness,” I said calmly. “What’s going on here?”
She whirled around, pointing a shaky finger at the half-empty casserole dish. “You!” she shrieked, her voice cracking.
“You tried to kill me with that food!”
“But I thought you said you didn’t eat my meals?” I asked, tilting my head slightly. “Also, I warned you. Did you even read the label?”
The look of realization that crossed her face was priceless.
Her eyes widened in horror as she fumbled in her purse for her EpiPen. She quickly injected it into her thigh.
A second later, Sammy walked in. As he loosened his tie, he looked from his red-faced, panicked mother to me and frowned.
“What’s all the commotion?” he asked.
“Your wife,” Gwendolyn gasped out between wheezes, “tried to kill me!”
Shaking my head, I explained everything calmly. “I made a casserole with nuts and dairy. I labeled it clearly and warned her not to eat it because I know about her dietary restrictions.
She still did it.”
I pointed to the label, still stuck to the container.
Before Sammy could respond, Gwendolyn let out a groan and clutched her stomach. She bolted for the bathroom, leaving us standing in the kitchen.
“I’ll sue you for this!” her voice carried through the bathroom door. “You deliberately tried to poison me!”
When she finally emerged, looking pale and disheveled, I was ready.
I pulled the document she had signed months earlier from one of the kitchen drawers.
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