Every Sunday, choir practice with my mother-in-law, Betty, felt like a battle. Her constant jabs about my piano skills and veiled praise of Mike’s ex, Susan, were unbearable. But one day, after another round of her cutting remarks, I’d had enough.

I quietly plotted a subtle revenge.

The following Sunday, during the church potluck, Betty proudly presented her famous cranberry sauce. Everyone fawned over it, as usual. But as we sat down to eat, I made a show of taking a big bite, then paused dramatically.

“Betty,” I said, pulling a hair from the sauce, “I think there’s something in this.”

The room fell silent. Betty’s face turned pale as whispers spread. Her prized dish, once revered, was now avoided. No one wanted to touch it, let alone take any home.

Betty was mortified, her usual smugness replaced by an awkward silence. The car ride home was tense, Betty staring out the window, no doubt replaying the day’s events.

In the weeks that followed, something shifted. Betty was quieter, more reserved. She no longer criticized my playing or mentioned Susan. My petty revenge had worked, and I finally felt a sense of peace during choir practice.

Betty might not have realized it, but her reign over me had ended.