She wasn’t just here, she was here making her home. Much like clockwork every time she came to our home, she marched into our bedroom as if the room was hers. Monica didn’t cross boundaries, she steamrolled them: our bed shares space with luggage, candles in our bathroom’s shower, and the scent of gasping for air fills our nostrils.
We were at the open window, like soldiers for a siege. It was early, he muttered, his blinds only partially open. Monica was never punctual. Of course, today she was.
“Ready for the storm?” I asked.
“We’ve weathered worse,” he said.
But had we?
I have sat down through five years of this woman, my mother in law, who would ignore every indication, every plea, every solidly given line. Whenever she came to visit, our bedroom was her personal hotel suite influencing it to be a sacred place for Jake and I.
Christmas was the last straw. I opened a drawer and pulled out my jewelry box that was empty. As if my things were expendable clutter, she said, “I needed the space.”
Jake, bless him, tried. Even with Monica, he was steamrolled. His boundaries were paper shields in a hurricane.
This time, I was ready.
One last call was made the night before her arrival. “To prepare the guest room I said plainly.” We’re keeping our bedroom private.”
Her answer? “We shall see what happens there.”
Challenge accepted.
Like royalty, she came rushing through the door dropping sarcastic compliments and a bucket of requests all at once. Just minutes later, she was towing her things toward our bedroom again.
“We’ve set up the guest room this time,’ Jake tried to intervene.
“Yes, you adjust, oh sweetie, you young people.” She smiled.
I smiled too. “Of course.”
But I had made preparations.
After dinner (including a serious of Monica dialing into the conversation with actionable tips, both positive and negative, on my wine glasses, the salad dressing, at least once on the hat blocks of the box in the hallway) Jake and I went to the guest room.
He looked at me, confused. “Why are we in here?”
The drawer opened and I took out what I had as evidence; lingerie, massage oils, and a few… namesless and things. Things that should never be mistreated by any self respecting mother in law. I made sure they were in very discoverable places, and I had already done that.
Jake turned pale. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did.”
The next morning, Monica entered the kitchen and looked like a ghost had ran past her.
But her voice was tight and she announced, “We’ll sleep in the guest room.”
“Oh? The master, you liked the master?’” I asked, sugar sweet.
“We changed our minds.”
Jake nearly choked on his toast, not wanting to laugh.
I was happy to help her move her things. She declined—firmly.
The rest of the visit went on without incident. No stomping. No complaining. I have no scented candles in my bathroom.
As they left, Monica hugged me, but there was something about it that had the feeling of a stiff handshake. She said her guest room was very comfortable – as she avoided looking at her kidnapper directly.
“Glad to hear it,” I replied. “It’ll be ready next time.”
Said Jake that night: ‘You know she’s probably traumatized.’
“Good,” I said. “Every time we came home, she walked into our bedroom, I was so.”
Some might call it petty. I label it as a masterclass of boundary setting.
And the next day when Jake got a text they’d booked a hotel for Christmas?
I knew finally the message landed.
