I’ve always adored my daughter-in-law, but after we all moved onto the same property, she turned my bathroom into her private spa. When she finished my products, left the place looking like a tornado hit it, and still expected me to clean up, I decided it was time Delaney learned a small, unforgettable lesson in respect. Retirement was supposed to be peaceful.
I dipped into my savings, built a lovely mother-in-law suite behind the main house, and invited my son Wesley, his wife Delaney, and their two little ones, Archer and Poppy, to take over the big house. Separate spaces, one big happy family. It sounded perfect.
It wasn’t. Delaney and I had always gotten along beautifully, especially over our shared obsession with lotions and luxurious bath products. So when I splurged on a gorgeous, heavy jar of rose-and-collagen night cream, I couldn’t wait to show her.
“Look at this,” I said, unscrewing the frosted lid so the delicate scent drifted out. “Smell that. Isn’t it heavenly?”
Her eyes went wide.
Before I could add “just a tiny dab,” she plunged two fingers in and scooped out a dollop the size of a tablespoon. “It’s incredible!” she exclaimed, immediately going back for seconds. A little voice in my head, the one that’s survived sixty-eight years of life and raising a son, whispered: You just handed her an inch, Lorraine.
Watch her take the whole mile. And she did. One Tuesday I brought my book-club friends Carole and Janice back to see my new place.
We were laughing as we walked up the path, only to find my front door standing wide open. I thought we’d been robbed, until I heard cartoon music blasting from my living room. Inside, Archer and Poppy were sprawled across my cream sofa, surrounded by a snowstorm of snack wrappers.
Delaney had clearly used her spare key again. I forced a smile for my friends. “Looks like the welcoming committee beat us here.”
Then the bathroom door opened.
Out stepped Delaney, wrapped in my brand-new plush robe, face slathered in my avocado mask, rolling my jade roller across her chin like she was at a five-star resort. “Hey, Lorraine!” she sang. “Your foot spa is to die for.
I used the lavender soak; my skin has never felt so soft!”
That was the moment my cozy sanctuary stopped feeling like mine. A few days later I walked into a fresh nightmare: wet towels on the floor, counters sticky with spilled body butter, my precious rose cream hollowed out like someone had attacked it with a spoon. And then my foot slid on a puddle of soapy water.
I windmilled, grabbed the counter, wrenched my wrist, and slammed my elbow hard enough to make my arm go numb. For one terrifying second I pictured myself sprawled on the cold tile, unable to reach a phone, all because someone couldn’t be bothered to wipe up after herself. Fury, cold and sharp, washed over me.
I planned to sit Delaney down and have a calm, firm talk. Then I opened Instagram. There she was, glowing under my bathroom’s flattering lights, caption screaming: “Self-care Sunday at my MIL’s, obsessed with her fancy spa goodies!
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