When my future mother-in-law invited me over for tea, I thought it was going to be a sweet bonding moment before the wedding. I was wrong. Instead of warmth, she handed me a list—25 luxury gifts I was supposed to buy for her, one for every year she “invested” in raising Jake.
That was the day I started questioning what kind of family I was marrying into… and how far his mom would actually go.
You know that gut feeling you get when someone is smiling at you, but deep down you know they’re dangerous? That’s exactly how I felt when Jake’s mom, Linda, called me three weeks before the wedding.
Jake and I had been together for three years and engaged for six months. His family always seemed nice enough, though Linda had her quirks. She still called Jake her “baby boy” and once, at a family barbecue, I saw her cut his steak for him.
It was weird, but I brushed it off. Maybe she was just overprotective. I told myself I could handle it.
Then came the call.
“Sweetheart,” Linda cooed on the phone, her voice sugar-coated but strangely sharp underneath. “I was hoping we could have a little woman-to-woman chat before the big day. Why don’t you come over for tea tomorrow afternoon?”
I hesitated, but said, “Sure.” Maybe this was my chance to connect with her.
So the next afternoon, I showed up at her picture-perfect house with a bottle of wine. I took a deep breath on the doorstep, trying to convince myself this was just tea and small talk.
Linda opened the door, wearing a pressed cardigan and her signature smile—the kind that looked warm from far away but cold up close.
“Come in, dear,” she said. Inside, everything was beige, stiff, and uncomfortable.
“I made chamomile,” she added, pouring tea into delicate china cups that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
I expected her to chat about the wedding or share funny stories about Jake. Instead, she reached into a drawer and slid a folded piece of paper across the table like she was sliding over a contract.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Oh, just a little something I put together for you,” Linda replied smoothly, sipping her tea.
I unfolded it—and nearly choked.
It was a list.
Linda’s 25 Must-Have Gifts Before the Wedding.
- Louis Vuitton Neverfull handbag.
- Cartier Love bracelet.
- Tiffany diamond pendant.
- Gucci silk scarf.
- Hermès perfume.
And it kept going: spa weekends, trips to Napa Valley, first-class tickets to Hawaii, Chanel No. 5, Apple Watch, cashmere sweaters, Dom Pérignon…
Twenty-five expensive items that together probably cost more than Jake and I made in a year.
I stared at it in disbelief. “Linda, what exactly is this?”
“That,” she said proudly, “is your repayment list, sweetheart. One gift for every year I invested in raising Jake.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re marrying the finished product of my hard work. Motherhood is priceless, but in this case, I’ve set a fair standard. Twenty-five years, twenty-five gifts.”
Fair? Reasonable? My jaw almost hit the floor.
I laughed nervously. “Linda, marriage isn’t an exchange of goods. I’m marrying Jake, not buying him. I don’t owe you payment for raising your own son!”
Her smile didn’t falter. “If you can’t honor the years I spent raising him, maybe you don’t value family like we do. A little material appreciation would show your seriousness.”
I left her house with the list crumpled in my purse and a massive headache.
When I got home, Jake was in the kitchen making dinner. “How was tea with Mom?” he asked cheerfully.
I slapped the list on the counter. “She gave me this. A list of gifts she expects me to buy her before the wedding.”
He laughed. “Good one. What did she really say?”
“Jake, I’m not joking.”
His smile dropped. He grabbed the paper, scanning it. His face changed from confusion to disbelief to rage. “She can’t be serious.”
“Oh, she’s dead serious.”
Jake called her on the spot. I listened as Linda repeated her line about me “not valuing family.”
He hung up, looking crushed. “I had no idea she’d do this. I’m so sorry.”
I tried to comfort him, but in the back of my mind I wondered—was this just the beginning of what marriage to Jake’s family would be like?
I thought it was over. But I was so wrong.
Two weeks later, at Jake’s cousin’s engagement party, Linda struck again. In front of everyone.
She stood up with her champagne glass and announced: “When you marry into a family, you don’t just marry the person. You honor the people who raised them. Some of us are still waiting for our tokens of appreciation.”
The room went silent. My face burned. Jake shot up from his chair. “Mom, stop this. Now.”
But the damage was done. Whispers circled the table. I knew then—this wasn’t just ridiculous anymore. It was toxic.
Linda’s birthday was a week later, and she’d been hinting about the Cartier bracelet she wanted from me. Instead, I came up with my own plan.
She wanted 25 gifts? Fine. I’d give her 25 gifts.
At the dollar store.
I spent hours carefully picking each one: a plastic tiara, a cat calendar (she hated cats), off-brand perfume that smelled like cleaning spray, a chipped “World’s Best Mom” mug, a rubber duck, even a packet of gummy worms.
And for the grand finale? A roll of toilet paper with “For all the crap you’ve put me through” written on it in gold Sharpie.
I wrapped every single one beautifully with ribbons and shiny paper. Presentation was everything.
At her fancy birthday dinner, during dessert, I wheeled in a big decorated box.
“Linda,” I said sweetly, “I wanted to give you something special. Here are 25 gifts to honor the years you spent raising Jake.”
Her eyes gleamed. She started unwrapping.
First gift: gummy worms. Smile wavered.
Second: a mini stapler. Guests shifted uncomfortably.
Third: motel soap. Someone stifled a laugh.
By the tenth gift, a rubber duck with sunglasses, half the table was openly giggling.
The 24th gift was a cheap bookmark that said, Reading is Fun-damental.
And then came gift 25. The toilet paper. With gold lettering.
The table exploded in laughter. Jake’s dad covered his mouth with his napkin. His sister had tears streaming down her face. Jake even clapped.
Linda slammed the box shut. “You’re mocking me!”
I looked her dead in the eye. “No, Linda. I honored you. You never specified what kind of gifts they had to be.”
She stormed out of the restaurant, leaving her birthday cake untouched.
The rest of the dinner was pure fun. Relatives whispered, “Thank you, someone finally stood up to her.” Even Linda’s own sister said, “She’s had that coming for years.”
The next day, Jake told her plainly: “Respect my fiancée, or don’t come to the wedding.”
And from that moment? Silence. Sweet, peaceful silence.
So yes, I gave her 25 gifts. But I also gave her a 26th gift: the message that I would not be bullied. And judging by the laughter and relief on everyone’s faces that night, maybe I gave the whole family a gift too—freedom from Linda’s grip.