Five months pregnant and glowing, I truly believed my life was finally perfect. Well, almost perfect.
I had my dream husband, Arnold, who still brought me coffee in bed every morning and rubbed my swollen feet without a single complaint. We had our little white-picket-fence house, the one we saved for years to afford. And upstairs, the nursery walls were already half-painted in soft yellow, since we wanted the gender to be a surprise.
Everything felt like a dream—except for one problem. My mother-in-law, Martha.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Arnold is everything I could ask for—patient, funny, endlessly supportive of my cravings. Just last week, he drove 20 minutes at midnight to bring me pickle ice cream. But marriage had come with something I wasn’t prepared for: Martha living under our roof.
After Arnold’s father passed away, she’d moved in. At 65, Martha was sharp, strong, and twice as stubborn. But her biggest flaw? She had zero respect for boundaries—especially when it came to packages.
It didn’t matter if it was UPS, FedEx, or Amazon. The moment she heard a delivery truck outside, she sprinted to the door like an Olympic athlete. Before I could even check my phone’s tracking notification, she’d already torn into the box like it was Christmas morning.
My name could be printed in bold letters across the front, and she still didn’t care. When I confronted her, she always gave the same excuse:
“Oh, I thought it might be something important for the house,” she’d say, batting her eyelashes innocently.
Most of the time, I held back my anger. But pregnancy had made me more protective, more sensitive. Everything felt personal now. And the breaking point came the day she ruined something I’d been planning for weeks.
I was organizing a gender reveal party—ordering decorations, games, and surprises. It was going to be beautiful. But when one of my big orders arrived, Martha couldn’t resist.
I walked in after a doctor’s appointment and found the kitchen looking like a tornado had hit. Tissue paper was everywhere, boxes ripped open, and in the middle of it all stood Martha, waving a bright blue card.
“It’s a boy!” she shouted across the house to Arnold, who was in his office. “Can you believe it? Cecelia’s having a boy!”
My heart dropped. That was our moment. Our surprise. A memory Arnold and I should have shared with our families together. But Martha had stolen it in one careless, selfish second.
I wanted to scream, to snatch the card from her hand. But I knew Martha too well. She thrived on dramatic reactions—loved to twist the story later and play the victim.
“Oh, poor me,” she’d cry. “I was only trying to help, and look how I was treated.”
So instead, I stayed silent. I forced a smile. But inside, I was already plotting.
If Martha wanted to snoop in my packages so badly, then fine—I’d give her something to snoop about.
That night, after Arnold fell asleep, I opened my laptop and began shopping. Not for baby supplies. For revenge.
The first thing I found was the loudest, brightest adult toy imaginable. Neon pink, ridiculous, and impossible to ignore. Perfect.
The second? A glitter bomb disguised as a padded envelope. The kind that explodes with sparkly dust the moment you tear it open.
I set both for overnight delivery, my name in bold print on every label. And to make sure Martha couldn’t lie her way out later, I remembered the security camera by our front door. Every grab, every sprint, every theft would be caught on video.
The next morning, I was ready. My phone buzzed—“Package delivered.” My heart raced.
From the living room window, I watched Martha’s bedroom door creak open. She bolted for the front door, yanked it open, and snatched up my two packages like prey. Then she disappeared into her room.
I waited, grinning to myself. Ten minutes of silence. And then—
A scream that could’ve woken the dead.
It was followed by crashes, thuds, and what sounded like a wrestling match. Finally, Martha emerged. Her footsteps were slow this time, defeated. She placed the packages on the living room table and shuffled into the kitchen.
When I finally stepped in, I nearly burst out laughing. The coffee table was a crime scene. The neon pink “toy” sat proudly in the middle, impossible to ignore. But the real masterpiece? Glitter. Everywhere. The table, the rug, even Martha’s reading glasses were coated.
“Everything okay out here?” I asked sweetly.
Martha froze. Her hair was messy, her cheeks flushed, and tiny sparkles clung to her skin.
“Oh, yes, dear,” she mumbled, avoiding my eyes. “Just… cleaning up a little spill.”
I picked up the empty glitter bomb envelope and tilted my head. “Hmm, this has my name on it. Did you happen to see who opened it?”
She stammered. “I… well… I thought maybe—”
“Maybe what, Martha?” I smiled innocently. “Maybe it was for you? Even though it clearly says ‘Cecelia’ on the label?”
Before she could answer, Arnold walked in. He stopped cold when he saw the glittery mess and the neon pink monstrosity.
“What in the world happened here?” he asked.
I turned to Martha. “Why don’t you tell him? You’re the one who opened my packages.”
But she couldn’t. For once, Martha had no excuse. She muttered something, turned red, and hurried back to her room. “Sorry, sorry. Won’t happen again.”
Arnold looked at me, wide-eyed. “Did you… did you seriously order a glitter bomb just to catch her?”
“Maybe,” I said, trying not to laugh.
He shook his head. “You’re terrible. And brilliant. But mostly terrible.”
From that day on, not a single package was touched before I got home. Martha never even looked at them. When Arnold asked why, she only muttered, “They’re not my business anymore.”
But of course, she still tried to save face. To the extended family, she painted herself as the victim. “I was just helping with packages,” she said, “and I found something very inappropriate for a pregnant woman.”
For a moment, I worried her gossip might stick. Arnold’s cousin even texted me: “Hey, I heard something weird about packages? Is everything okay?”
That’s when Arnold and I played our trump card.
We sent out the security footage—Martha sprinting across the porch, snatching my package, and running like her life depended on it.
The family chat exploded with messages. Arnold’s aunt Karen finally shut it down:
“So, you snooped, stole, lied, AND tried to embarrass Cecelia? Martha, you’re lucky all you got was glitter.”
From then on, Martha had a new nickname in the family: The Package Bandit.
And me? Every time I see a fresh delivery waiting untouched on the porch, I smile. Because I’ll never forget the day glitter—and a neon pink toy—finally taught Martha her lesson.