For three exhausting months, I felt like an invisible servant in my own home. My stepdaughter Jessica, a bright 23-year-old with a demanding corporate job, moved back in “temporarily” and immediately treated our house like her personal hotel. Coffee mugs left to grow mold, takeout containers piling up on counters, and makeup-stained towels tossed on the bathroom floor became my daily reality.
My husband Mark kept saying, “She’s adjusting,” but I knew better. The final straw came when I found a half-eaten sandwich shoved between our couch cushions – the same couch I’d upholstered myself last summer. That’s when I realized: if she wanted to live like a teenager, I’d treat her like one.
The next morning, I stopped being her maid. Dirty dishes? Left exactly where she abandoned them. Piles of laundry? Stacked neatly outside her bedroom door. When she complained about the mess, I simply said, “Funny, I don’t remember making it.”
My masterstroke came when I packed her designer work bag with all the trash she’d left around the house that week. The text I got at noon was priceless: “I OPENED MY BAG IN A BOARD MEETING TO FIND USED TISSUES AND A ROTTING BANANA PEEL!”
That evening, a miracle occurred. Jessica actually loaded the dishwasher without being asked. Two months later, we’ve settled into a respectful rhythm. She even thanked me last week – though I suspect she’s still finding crumbs in her handbag.
