When my mother-in-law, Jennifer, moved in, I tried to stay optimistic. Mark, my husband, insisted it would be temporary—maybe even helpful. But almost immediately, things felt off. My closet was subtly rearranged, perfume bottles moved, and my earrings mysteriously shifted. When I brought it up to Mark, he brushed it off. “She’s not snooping,” he said. But I knew better.

Every day, it got worse. Her signature rose-scented lotion lingered on clothes she shouldn’t have touched. I didn’t want to accuse her without proof, so I came up with a plan. I planted a fake diary in the back of my closet. In it, I wrote a dramatic, false entry about feeling unloved and planning to leave Mark. Then I waited.

Three days later, it worked. At dinner, Jennifer slammed her fork down and accused me of hiding a secret. “Mark deserves to know what you wrote in that diary,” she said smugly. Everyone fell silent. I turned to her calmly and asked, “How exactly did you know about that diary?” She stammered. She’d walked straight into my trap.

“That diary was fake,” I said. “Planted to catch the person snooping through my things. Thanks for confirming it was you.” Her face went pale, and the room stayed awkwardly silent the rest of the night.

After dinner, Mark finally admitted, “I didn’t believe you. I should’ve.” He was hurt but understood. That night, I finally had peace. My room felt like mine again. And Jennifer? She never looked me in the eye after that.