When my mother-in-law, Jane, moved in without warning, I thought it was just a plumbing issue. But as soon as I walked in and saw her unpacking, I realized it was much more. “Mom,” I asked, voice tight, “what’s going on?” She casually waved me off, claiming her house had flooded.

My husband, Joe, looked guilty as he admitted he hadn’t told me. “It’s only for a little while,” he shrugged. I forced a smile, knowing full well Jane’s idea of “getting along” involved passive-aggressive comments about our lack of kids.

That night, while eavesdropping, I overheard her plan: “I’ll keep an eye on things. Someone’s got to figure out what’s going on.” My stomach twisted—this was about more than just pipes.

The next morning, I decided to turn the tables. I cleared our master bedroom and transformed it into a lavish suite for Jane. When Joe got home, his shock was priceless. I smiled sweetly, insisting she deserved it.

For days, I treated her like royalty, but Joe was slowly losing it. Between Jane’s vitamin schedules and her obsession with prepping him for fatherhood, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Finally, he booked her a hotel room. “Mom, it’s for the best,” he said firmly. Reluctantly, she agreed. As the door shut behind her, Joe collapsed onto the couch, relief washing over him. “Finally,” he sighed. I laughed, “So… kale for dinner?” He groaned, “Never again.”