When my mother-in-law Linda moved in, she insisted she was a guest and refused to lift a finger. Instead of kicking her out, I gave her the full VIP treatment—until she couldn’t take it anymore.
Jason told me his mom had sold her condo and needed “a little while” to stay with us. I hesitated. The last time we spent more than a weekend together, she criticized everything—my cooking, my towels, even how I folded laundry.
“Just until she figures things out,” Jason promised.
I sighed. “Fine. But we need ground rules.”
He agreed, but that was mistake number one—thinking he’d enforce them.
Linda arrived with three suitcases, houseplants, and zero respect for boundaries. She unpacked, filled my kitchen with organic teas she never drank, and made passive-aggressive comments about “young people relying on microwaves.”
By week two, she wasn’t a guest—she was a full-time problem.
She left dirty dishes everywhere, smeared makeup across my bathroom mirror, and tossed her laundry into my hamper like I was dying to wash her sweatpants.
When I asked politely, she smiled sweetly: “Oh honey, I’m just a guest! You wouldn’t ask a guest to do chores, would you?”
Meanwhile, Jason was useless. “She’s my mom, babe. Can’t we just let her be comfortable?”
Comfortable? She lived like royalty while I cleaned up after two adults.
The breaking point came one Saturday morning. My sacred day to sleep in, my one indulgence—my expensive coffee. I shuffled into the kitchen, craving it, only to find Linda sipping the last cup from my favorite mug.
The sink was a disaster zone. I asked, “Linda, would you mind helping with the dishes today?”
She waved me off: “Sweetheart, I’m sure you’ll get to it.”
Something snapped. But instead of yelling, I smiled. If she wanted to be a guest, I’d treat her exactly like one.
For the next week, I became the perfect host.
- Monday: She woke up to a printed breakfast menu: cereal, toast, or “chef’s surprise” leftovers. When she asked for her usual omelet, I explained that was part of the upgraded package. She huffed but ate cereal.
- Tuesday: At 11 p.m., I shut off the WiFi. She stormed out, furious. I explained it was “house security protocol.” Internet resumed at 7 a.m.
- Wednesday: After cleaning her messes, I left laminated signs: “Housekeeping in Progress! Do Not Disturb!” She scowled at every one.
- Thursday: No dinner. Instead, I left takeout menus in her room. “Guests should have options,” I said cheerfully.
By Sunday, she found an envelope on her dresser. Inside: an invoice.
- Laundry Service – $50
- Maid Service – $30
- Coffee & Breakfast Supply – $20
- Hotel Convenience Charge – $15
At the bottom: “Thank you for staying at the Family B&B! Please settle your balance by the end of your stay.”
Linda stormed into the kitchen, outraged. “What is this? I’m not paying to live in my son’s house!”
I tilted my head. “Oh? I thought you were a guest. Guests don’t stay for free.”
Jason blinked between us, realization dawning. Linda shrieked, “I don’t feel welcome here anymore! I guess I’ll just find somewhere else to stay!”
Jason sighed. “Mom… maybe that’s for the best.”
Within a week, Linda was gone.
The house was peaceful again—no dirty dishes, no towels on furniture, no passive-aggressive comments. Jason finally admitted, “Okay… maybe you had a point.”
And 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 been too special to clean up after herself. But in the end, she cleaned herself right out of my house.
