I knew exactly when Hurricane Monica would make landfall – in seventeen minutes. But unlike weather forecasts, Monica’s arrivals were predictable only in their complete disregard for boundaries. As I adjusted my shirt and forced a smile, my husband Jake peered through the blinds. “They’re early,” he sighed. Of course they were. Monica had never respected schedules – or personal space – in her life.
For five long years, I’d watched this woman invade our home like a tropical storm, dumping her designer luggage on our bed and filling our bedroom with overpowering scented candles. Last Christmas, I’d opened my jewelry drawer to find it emptied – Monica had needed “the space.” The audacity still burned.
When the doorbell rang, Jake performed his usual enthusiastic greeting. Monica air-kissed his cheeks while giving me that familiar assessing glare. Her silent husband Frank trailed behind, burdened with luggage. “Coffee, dear?” Monica asked sweetly, already halfway down the hall toward our bedroom before I could respond.
Jake tried weakly, “Mom, we have the guest room ready this time.” She paused just long enough to deliver her standard dismissal about uncomfortable guest beds before continuing her march to our private sanctuary. My hands clenched into fists. After years of subtle hints and outright requests being ignored, I’d finally had enough.
The night before, I’d made my position crystal clear over the phone: “We’ve prepared the guest room. We won’t be sharing our bedroom.” Monica’s response? A smug “We’ll see.” Well, now she would see.
As I entered our bedroom later, Monica stood victorious among her scattered belongings, our bed already claimed. “The guest room gets too much sun,” she declared. I simply smiled and said, “Of course.” The trap was set.
Dinner that night was Monica’s usual performance – complaints about the food, the wine, even the plates. But I remained uncharacteristically calm, exchanging secret glances with a confused Jake. When our guests retired to “their” room, Jake cornered me in the guest bedroom. “What’s going on? Why are you so calm?”
My grin widened as I revealed my secret weapons – carefully placed adult toys, massage oils, and risqué lingerie strategically positioned throughout our bedroom. Jake’s face paled. “Oh my God. You didn’t!”
“Oh, I did. And she’s seen everything.”
The next morning, a ghostly pale Monica appeared in the kitchen, her usual composure shattered. “We’ll… use the guest room,” she stammered. I feigned concern. “But I thought you loved the master bedroom?” Monica actually flinched. “We… changed our minds.”
By evening, Monica and Frank had quietly relocated all their belongings. As I sipped lemonade on the porch, Jake finally demanded details. “Remember my shopping trip downtown?” I asked innocently. His laughter echoed through the house as he realized the full extent of my revenge. Sometimes, the sweetest victories come in the most unexpected packages.
