For years, my mother-in-law’s Fourth of July invasions were anything but celebratory. Like clockwork, Diane would arrive with her brood of twelve – suitcases in hand and appetites ready – treating my home like an all-inclusive resort. I’d spend weeks preparing only to hear complaints about the potato salad and find sticky fingerprints on every surface.
This year, I declared my own independence. When they pulled into the driveway expecting the usual feast, they found a different scene: paper plates, store-bought cookies, and a cooler filled with nothing but ice. “We’re trying something new this year,” I smiled sweetly. “A potluck!”
The outrage was immediate. My nephew actually whined about having to make his own hot dog. Diane’s face turned the color of the decorative bunting as she realized her free ride was over. By sunset, they’d packed up their untouched bags of chips and left in a huff. My real fireworks display came later – enjoying a peaceful evening on my pristine patio, finally free from their annual takeover.
