Time was ticking down in dread, knowing that in 17 minutes, Hurricane Monica would land.
She wasn’t some visitor, she was illegitmate. Much like clockwork every time she came to our home, she marched into our bedroom as if the room was hers. We had luggage on our bed, candles in our bathroom, and a cloud of suffocating perfume that Monica rolled across boundaries, not just break them.
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. He felt like a paper shield to the hurricane of his attempts at boundaries.
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’ll see when we reach 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?”
I opened the drawer and snatched out my evidence: lingerie, massage oils and a few… unmentionables. 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.”
I remember that night Jake turned towards me and said that you know she was probably though traumatized.
“Good,” I said. “Every time we came home, she walked into our bedroom, I was so.”
Some might call it petty. I refer to it as a masterclass on setting boundaries.
And the next day when Jake got a text they’d booked a hotel for Christmas?
I knew finally the message landed.
