When my mother-in-law, Linda, moved in for a “few days” due to a pipe burst in her building, I had no idea she’d take over my home. By day two, my apartment was unrecognizable. My photos were replaced with Linda’s sepia-toned portraits, and every room was filled with reed diffusers, potpourri — even my underwear drawer wasn’t safe. She used my expensive cream, my bath gel, and even took over my private tub. And that’s when I knew — I had to fight back. I let Linda host a party in my blouse and paraded her guests through our home like it was a museum. After she used up my husband’s cologne, bent his tie pins, and scratched his car, I decided enough was enough. My husband, Daniel, finally drove her back to her apartment, but not before I made sure she felt the consequences of crossing the line. She left bewildered, thinking she was the one in control. Meanwhile, I reclaimed my peace, soaking in my tub, letting the house finally whisper, “Welcome home.”
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