When my husband’s mother temporarily moved in after a plumbing disaster, I thought I could handle it. I was wrong.
By day two, our peaceful, vanilla-scented apartment was unrecognizable. My photos were swapped for her sepia portraits, my underwear drawer smelled of potpourri, and my expensive imported cream was suddenly “ours.”
I bit my tongue. Until I found her luxuriating in my tub, surrounded by my candles, using my bath gel — and acting like it was perfectly fine because “we’re both women.”
Things escalated when I came downstairs on my one peaceful Saturday to find a full-blown party in my living room. Six of her friends, two silver-haired gentlemen, and Linda herself — wearing the brand-new blouse I’d never even worn. Oh, and she was telling everyone it was her house.
That’s when I decided: fine. Let her play hostess.
The next day, I “accidentally” encouraged her gentleman friends to explore the house. Daniel’s office, tie collection, cologne — all fair game. A few bent pins, an empty perfume bottle, and a mysterious car scratch later, my husband was personally driving his mother (and her cardigans) back to her own apartment.
Before she left, I told her sweetly, “You inspired me. It feels good to let others enjoy things that aren’t technically theirs.”
That night, I reclaimed my tub, my candles, and my peace.
Because when someone crosses a line in your home — you don’t yell. You win.