When my mother-in-law moved in, I never thought it would be this bad. She refused to do anything for herself, saying she was just a “guest” in our home. Instead of kicking her out, I decided to get creative. I treated her like a VIP, and eventually, she couldn’t stand it anymore.
It all started when Jason told me his mom, Linda, was selling her condo and needed a place to stay—”just for a little while.” I wasn’t thrilled. The last time we spent more than a weekend together, she criticized everything from my cooking to how I folded towels.
“Just until she gets sorted out,” Jason promised. That did not make me feel better.
“So, how long is ‘a little while’?” I asked, already regretting agreeing to this.
Jason shrugged. “A couple of weeks, maybe a month?”
I sighed, knowing I’d regret this. “Fine. But we need ground rules.”
“Of course,” Jason agreed quickly. But I knew he wouldn’t help enforce anything.
The weekend came, and Linda moved in with her three suitcases and a bunch of plants. She set up shop without hesitation, and it didn’t take long to realize this was no short-term visit. She started filling the kitchen with organic tea she never drank and made passive-aggressive comments about how “young people” relied too much on microwaves rather than doing things the “right way.”
By the second week, Linda’s stay was no longer just an inconvenience—it was a full-on problem. She left dirty dishes all over the table, claiming she’d clean them later, but later never came. The bathroom mirror was always smeared with makeup, and there were fingerprints everywhere. Laundry? Forget it. She casually threw her clothes in my hamper, acting like it was my job to wash them.
I tried to be polite about it. “Hey, Linda, could you put your towel in the hamper?”
She gave me her sweetest, most 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 completely useless.
“She’s my mom, babe,” he said when I vented. “Can’t we just let her be comfortable?”
Comfortable? She was treating my home like her personal hotel while I ran around cleaning up after both her and Jason.
I swallowed my frustration… until the coffee incident.
It was Saturday morning—the one day I could sleep in and relax. I walked into the kitchen, craving my special coffee, the expensive kind I bought just for myself. But when I turned the corner, there she was.
Linda, sitting at my table, sipping from my favorite mug, drinking the last cup of my precious coffee.
I froze, trying to stay calm. But then I looked over at the sink. Three dirty plates. A coffee mug. Crumbs. It was a disaster.
I took a deep breath. “Linda, would you mind helping with the dishes today?”
Without even looking up, she waved me off. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sure you’ll get to it.”
That was the moment everything shifted inside me. But I didn’t yell. I didn’t argue. No, I just smiled.
And in that smile, a brilliant plan started to take shape.
Linda wanted to be treated like a guest? Fine. I would treat her exactly like one.
The very next week, I became the perfect host, with a twist. I didn’t nag. I didn’t complain. I just gave her the full guest experience. And it was glorious.
On Monday, Linda woke up to a neatly printed menu on her nightstand. The elegant script read:
“Welcome to the Family B&B! Please select your complimentary breakfast option.”
Underneath, three choices were listed:
☕ 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.
When Linda walked into the kitchen and saw the menu, she raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“Oh, just something I put together,” I said cheerfully. “I figured you shouldn’t have to fend for yourself in the mornings. You’re a guest after all.”
She frowned. “But where’s my omelet? You always make eggs on Mondays.”
I gave her a sympathetic smile. “Oh, sorry! The upgraded breakfast package isn’t included in the complimentary stay. Would you like cereal or toast instead?”
She huffed but reluctantly chose cereal. One small victory for me.
That night, Linda, a YouTube addict, stayed up late watching videos, laughing at who-knows-what while the rest of us tried to sleep. So, I made another change.
At 11 p.m. on Tuesday, I switched off the WiFi router.
Five minutes later, Linda stormed out of her room. “Emma! The internet’s not working!”
I feigned a yawn. “Oh, right. We have an automatic shutoff system now. It’s part of our house security protocol—reduces cyber threats and keeps things running smoothly.”
She glared at me. “That’s ridiculous. I was in the middle of a show!”
“Sorry, house rules,” I said with a smile. “It turns back on at 7 a.m. Have a good night!”
She muttered something under her breath and stomped back to her room.
By Wednesday, I took things up a notch. Every time I cleaned up after her, I left a laminated sign in the area:
🛑 “Housekeeping in Progress! Do Not Disturb!”
I put one on the bathroom mirror after wiping off her makeup smudges. Another in the kitchen after scrubbing her dirty dishes. One more on the couch where she left crumbs.
She scowled every time she saw them. “What’s with all these signs?”
“Oh, it’s just a reminder that housekeeping is an important part of any guest experience,” I said sweetly.
Her eye twitched. I almost felt bad. Almost.
Thursday rolled around, and I decided to stop cooking altogether. Instead, I left a neatly stacked pile of takeout menus in Linda’s room.
That evening, Linda walked into the kitchen and looked around. “What’s for dinner?”
“Oh, I thought you might like to choose for yourself! Guests should have options, right?” I handed her the menu. “There’s a great Chinese place down the street. Or pizza, if you’re in the mood.”
Her lips tightened. “But you always cook.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t want to impose. Enjoy!”
Jason, ever oblivious, grabbed a menu and went with it.
By Sunday, I left an envelope on Linda’s 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 wrote:
“Thank you for staying at the Family B&B! Please settle your balance by the end of your stay.”
I was sipping my first cup of coffee when I heard Linda gasp from down the hall. She stormed into the kitchen, waving the bill in my face, her face bright red.
“What is this?” she demanded, shaking the paper at me like I’d 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, feigning innocence. “Oh? I thought you were a guest. And guests don’t stay for free, Linda.”
For a moment, she was speechless. Then she turned to Jason, who had just walked in.
“Jason,” she sputtered, thrusting the bill at him, “Your wife is trying to charge me for staying here!”
Jason blinked at the paper, then at me.
“Babe,” he said slowly, “Is this real?”
I smiled sweetly. “Of course not. I’m not actually charging her. I’m just following her logic. Guests don’t clean up after themselves, so they pay for the service instead.”
Jason’s eyes widened as the realization hit him. Linda, on the other hand, was practically gasping for air.
“This is ridiculous!” she shrieked. “I don’t feel welcome here anymore!”
I raised an eyebrow.
And then—oh, it was glorious—she said it.
“I guess I’ll just find somewhere else to stay!”
Jason hesitated. I shot him a look that dared him to argue. He sighed, rubbing his forehead.
“Mom… maybe that’s for the best.”
Just like that, Linda was gone within a week.
The house was peaceful again. No more dirty dishes. No more towels on the furniture. No more passive-aggressive comments.
And Jason, finally free of his guilt, admitted, “Okay, maybe you had a point.”
As for me? I poured myself a fresh cup of my special coffee, stretched out on my guest-free couch, and savored my victory.
Linda may have thought she was too special to clean up after herself, but in the end?
She cleaned herself right out of my house.