My mother-in-law moved into our home and immediately announced that she was only a “guest,” which apparently meant she had no intention of lifting a finger. Instead of throwing her out or starting endless arguments, I decided to get creative. I treated her exactly like a guest… until she couldn’t stand it anymore.
I never imagined I’d end up cleaning after my mother-in-law, but I also didn’t expect her to be so obsessed with criticizing everything. When my husband Jason told me that his mother, Linda, had sold her apartment and needed somewhere to stay “for a short time,” my stomach sank. The last time we’d spent more than a weekend together, she had commented on my food, my cleaning, and even how I folded towels.
“It’s just temporary,” Jason said, like that would magically make it easier.
“How temporary?” I asked, already regretting the conversation.
He shrugged. “A few weeks. Maybe a month.”
I sighed. I knew this wouldn’t end well. “Fine. But we need clear rules.”
“Of course,” he replied immediately, making his first mistake—assuming he wouldn’t have to enforce any of them.
The following weekend, Linda arrived with three suitcases, several plants, and absolutely no sense of boundaries. At first, I told myself it wouldn’t be so bad. She unpacked, filled my kitchen with teas she never drank, and made little comments about how people my age relied too much on convenience instead of “real cooking.”
By the second week, it was obvious she wasn’t just visiting. She was settling in.
She promised to wash her dishes later and never did. They stayed on the table. My bathroom mirror was constantly covered in makeup marks. Laundry? She didn’t do her own. She casually tossed her clothes into my hamper like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I tried to stay polite.
“Linda, could you please put your towel in the hamper?” I asked one day.
She smiled sweetly. “Oh honey, I’m just a guest. You wouldn’t expect a guest to do chores, would you?”
A guest. In the house I paid for.
Jason was no help at all.
“She’s my mom,” he said when I complained. “Can’t we just make her comfortable?”
Comfortable wasn’t even the word. While I cleaned up after two adults, she lived like royalty.
I swallowed my frustration. Until the coffee incident.
Saturday morning was my only chance to sleep in. Half-awake, I went to the kitchen craving my favorite coffee—the expensive one I saved just for myself. And there she was.
Linda sat at the table, calmly drinking the last cup from my favorite mug.
I noticed the sink full of dishes, crumbs everywhere. I took a deep breath.
“Linda, could you help with the dishes today?” I asked carefully.
She didn’t even look up. “Oh sweetheart, you’ll get to it.”
Something snapped inside me. But I didn’t argue. I smiled.
Because suddenly, I had an idea.
If Linda wanted to be a guest, then fine. I would treat her exactly like one.
For the next week, I became the perfect host. I stopped reminding her to clean. I stopped complaining. Instead, I gave her the full guest experience.
On Monday morning, she found a printed menu on her bedside table.
“Welcome to the Family B&B! Please select your complimentary breakfast.”
The options were simple:
Milk and cereal
Toast with butter
Chef’s surprise (leftovers from the night before)
She walked into the kitchen confused. “What is this?”
“Oh, just something I prepared,” I said cheerfully. “Guests shouldn’t have to worry about breakfast.”
She frowned. “Where are the eggs? You always make eggs on Mondays.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied kindly. “That’s part of the upgraded breakfast package.”
She chose cereal, clearly annoyed. I counted that as a win.
Linda stayed up late watching videos every night, laughing while we tried to sleep. On Tuesday, at 11 p.m., I turned off the Wi-Fi.
She rushed out of her room. “The internet isn’t working!”
“Oh yes,” I said softly. “We installed an automatic shut-off for safety reasons. It comes back at 7 a.m.”
She stared at me, stunned, then stormed back to her room.
By Wednesday, I started leaving laminated signs wherever I cleaned her messes.
“Housekeeping in progress. Please do not disturb.”
Bathroom mirror. Kitchen counter. Sofa. Everywhere.
“What’s with these signs?” she snapped.
“Just part of the guest experience,” I replied with a smile.
On Thursday, I stopped cooking dinner. Instead, I left a stack of takeout menus in her room.
“What’s for dinner?” she asked that evening.
“I thought you’d like to choose,” I said. “Guests should have options.”
Jason grabbed a menu, completely clueless as usual.
Sunday morning was the final touch. Linda found an envelope on her dresser. Inside was a neatly written invoice.
Laundry service: $50
Housekeeping: $30
Coffee and breakfast supplies: $20
Convenience fee: $15
At the bottom, I wrote:
“Thank you for staying at the Family B&B. Payment due at the end of your visit.”
Moments later, she burst into the kitchen, furious.
“What is this?” she shouted, waving the paper.
I calmly sipped my coffee. “Your bill.”
“I’m not paying to stay in my son’s house!” she yelled.
I tilted my head. “Oh? I thought you were a guest. Guests pay for services.”
She turned to Jason. “Your wife is charging me!”
Jason looked at the paper, then at me.
“Is this serious?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “I’m just following her logic.”
Linda’s face went red. “I don’t feel welcome here anymore!”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I guess I’ll find somewhere else to stay,” she said.
Jason hesitated, then sighed. “Mom… maybe that’s best.”
Within a week, she was gone.
The house was peaceful again. No dirty dishes. No comments. No towels on furniture.
Jason finally admitted, “Okay… maybe you were right.”
I sat on my sofa, poured myself another cup of my favorite coffee, and enjoyed the silence.
She may not have learned how to clean up after herself.
But she did learn how to leave.
