I watched the clock tick down with dread, knowing that in exactly 17 minutes, Hurricane Monica would make landfall.
She wasn’t just visiting—she was invading. And every single time she set foot in my house, she would claim my bedroom as if it were hers, ignoring any hint of personal space.
I looked over at Jake, my husband, as he peered through the blinds. “They’re early,” he muttered, his voice betraying the frustration we both shared. Monica was never one for punctuality, so of course, they showed up ten minutes ahead of schedule.
I took a deep breath and smoothed my shirt, plastering on the smile I always wore when preparing for battle. “Ready for the storm?” I asked.
Jake squeezed my hand, his expression matching mine. “We’ve weathered worse.”
Had we, though?
For five years, I’d watched Monica stomp her way into our home, straight into our bedroom, where she would throw her luggage on our bed, scatter her things across the counters, and leave a trail of scented candles that smelled so overpowering I couldn’t breathe.
One of my most vivid memories was last Christmas, when I opened a drawer and found my jewelry box emptied out. Monica’s excuse? She needed “the space.” The nerve. She always left the room a mess, never once considering the boundaries I had so carefully established in our home.
The doorbell rang, and Jake greeted his parents with practiced enthusiasm. “Mom! Dad! Great to see you!”
Monica swept in like royalty, air-kissing Jake’s cheeks before turning her calculating gaze on me, sizing me up with that sharp look she always gave. Frank, her ever-polite husband, followed behind her, carrying their luggage, barely speaking a word.
“Always lovely to see you both,” Monica said, the sweetness in her voice at odds with her rigid posture. “Won’t you brew some coffee while we get settled? Traveling is so tiring.”
Before I could respond, she was already halfway down the hall. I exchanged a glance with Jake—he knew this was about to go down, but he didn’t have the spine to stop it. He never did when it came to his mother.
“Mom,” he called after her, his voice almost apologetic. “We’ve set up the guest room for you this time.”
Monica paused mid-stride, shot him a look, and then flashed that sinister smile. “Oh, that’s sweet, but you know how my back gets on those guest beds. You young people can handle it.”
And just like that, she started her march toward our bedroom, leaving us both standing there, stunned.
I had tried, repeatedly, to set boundaries. First, I dropped hints: “The guest room has a better view.” Then came the direct approach: “We’d prefer to keep our room private.” But she always ignored me, brushing off my concerns with sarcastic comments and dismissive laughter.
This time, though, I was done.
The night before, I had made one last attempt to lay down the law. I called her and said, “We’ve set up the guest room for you. It’s clean, cozy, and private. We’re keeping our bedroom to ourselves.”
Her response? A condescending “We’ll see when we get there.”
I wasn’t going to let this slide. Not again.
I smiled sweetly the next morning, giving her the appearance of innocence. “Of course, whatever makes you comfortable.”
When I walked into our bedroom later, she was standing in the middle of the room with a self-satisfied smile on her face, luggage sprawled across our bed, her heavy perfume mixing with the scent of the candles she’d lit.
“The guest room gets too much morning sun,” she said, dismissing my effort with one wave of her hand. “It’s better for young people like you to adjust. We’re staying here.”
I didn’t flinch. I simply smiled and said, “Of course.”
That evening, as Monica and Frank sat down to dinner, I could feel the tension crackling in the air. She criticized my cooking, my choice of wine, and even the dishware, always finding something to complain about. But I remained calm, a serene smile plastered on my face as she launched her verbal barbs.
Jake kept shooting me confused looks, but I just squeezed his hand under the table. He didn’t know what was coming next.
After dinner, as Monica and Frank retreated to “their” bedroom, I slipped into the guest room with Jake, who asked, “What’s going on? Why are you being so calm?”
I slipped under the covers with a sly grin. “Let’s just say I made some preparations.”
“What kind of preparations?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.
I beckoned him closer. “I’ll show you.”
I barely contained my laughter as I pulled out the lingerie, the carefully hidden adult toys, and the strategically placed massage oils I’d tucked around the room and bathroom. His eyes widened in horror as I showed him the items Monica had surely discovered during her stay.
“Oh my God,” Jake breathed, looking as if the life had drained out of him. “You didn’t!”
“I did,” I smirked. “And she saw every last thing.”
The next morning, at precisely 7:43 a.m., Monica stormed into the kitchen looking like she’d seen a ghost. Her face was pale, lips pressed tightly together, her movements stiff.
She didn’t even touch the coffee I offered. Silence stretched between us until she finally spoke, each word forced out with visible discomfort.
“We’ll take the guest room. Please.”
I feigned innocence. “Oh? I thought you loved the master bedroom?”
Monica flinched. “We changed our minds.”
Jake nearly choked on his toast, his suppressed laughter causing him to cough.
I smiled sweetly. “The guest room gets that lovely morning light, and I just changed the sheets. I can help you move your things if you’d like.”
“No!” she said quickly. “No, thank you. We can manage.”
By the end of the day, Monica and Frank had quietly moved their belongings into the guest room. I watched from my porch, lemonade in hand, as karma did its work.
That night, Jake finally cornered me. “Okay, what exactly did you do?” he asked, his voice equal parts impressed and horrified.
I grinned. “Remember that shopping trip I took downtown?”
His eyes widened. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did,” I replied. “Plus a few things from a website with overnight delivery.”
When he saw what I’d done—filled the room with strategically placed, suggestive items—he couldn’t hold back his laughter.
Monica never knew what hit her.
The rest of their stay passed in blissful peace. By the time they left, Monica was stiffly hugging me at the door, clearly mortified.
“The guest room was quite comfortable after all,” she said, but it was clear she wasn’t happy about it.
“Glad to hear it,” I said sweetly. “It’s always available when you visit.”
As they drove off, Jake wrapped his arm around me. “You know she’s probably traumatized for life.”
“Good,” I replied, leaning into him. “So was I, every time she invaded our space.”
That night, I settled into bed with the satisfaction of a battle well won. Some might call it petty revenge, but I called it a necessary lesson in boundaries.
And judging by the text Jake received the next day saying they booked a hotel for Christmas, the lesson had stuck. Permanently.