When my mother-in-law, Linda, asked to stay with us “for a little while” after selling her condo, I didn’t even hesitate. Of course, I said yes. She was family, and honestly, it felt like the right thing to do. My husband, Victor, agreed, and we set up the guest bedroom with fresh linens, some flowers, and even stocked her favorite brand of coffee pods.

That first week felt… manageable. Maybe even nice. She praised my cooking, complimented the “homey” feel of our house, and told Victor he was lucky to have me. It almost felt like we were bonding. Almost.

But somewhere between week two and week twelve, that “little while” became something entirely different.

My house—my house—turned into a 24/7 hotel. Only I wasn’t just the host. I was the full-time housekeeper, concierge, chef, and occasional punching bag.

Linda refused to lift a finger. Dirty dishes? Left wherever she’d finished eating—sometimes still with crusted food stuck to them. Towels? Piled on the bathroom floor like a hotel had daily housekeeping. Her makeup? Streaked across the bathroom mirror as if she had been applying it blindfolded. And the couch? She basically moved into it. Her legs always draped across the coffee table, slippers flung underneath, crumbs in the cushions like she was marking her territory.

The worst part? When I tried to address it—gently, because I didn’t want to start a family war—she’d laugh and wave her hand like I was being absurd.

“Oh, honey,” she said once, not even turning her head away from the reality show she was watching, “I’m just a guest. You wouldn’t ask a guest to do chores, would you?”

I stood there, holding her empty cereal bowl and a spoon she’d used to stir her tea, wondering if I’d just walked into a scene from a satire. A guest? A guest in the home that I paid for? I’d been working overtime the past two months to help cover the increase in utility bills. Meanwhile, she was binging Netflix in a robe.

And Victor? His solution was to “not make a big deal.”

“She’s my mom, babe. She’s in between homes. Can’t we just let her be comfortable?”

Comfortable? She was living like a damn queen. And I was one sarcastic thought away from setting the couch on fire.

But I didn’t yell. I didn’t complain again. Instead, I smiled. I said, “You’re right, she’s a guest. Let’s treat her like one.”

For the next week, I flipped the script. I became the perfect host—on paper. And Linda had no idea what was coming.

It started with breakfast.

“Good morning!” I chirped one day, a little too brightly. “I’ve prepared a special breakfast for our VIP guest!” I served her a single, perfectly toasted slice of gluten-free bread with half a teaspoon of strawberry jam—just enough to make it seem thoughtful, but not enough to satisfy. I presented it on a tray with a flower and a printed menu for the next day’s “options.” Spoiler: the options were just toast, cereal, or instant oatmeal.

She looked at the tray like I had served her a paper napkin for breakfast.

“Oh,” she said, squinting at the menu, “no eggs?”

“We’re trying to cut back on groceries while accommodating extra guests,” I smiled.

Next, I began announcing housekeeping hours.

“Just so you know,” I said, holding a clipboard I’d made out of old cardboard, “Housekeeping comes by for towel pickup at 8 a.m. and turndown service ends at 9 p.m. Please leave any linens outside the door or they won’t be replaced until the next cycle.”

She blinked. “What if I need fresh towels later?”

“Feel free to reuse the existing ones! We’re an eco-friendly home.”

And that was just the beginning.

I created a fake “guest satisfaction” survey and left it on her bed. I changed the Wi-Fi password every day and printed it on little tent cards titled VIP Internet Access—but only handed them out after she’d helped clear the table.

“Oh, I thought guests don’t do chores,” she snapped once, after I asked her to help fold a dish towel to earn the Wi-Fi password.

“Well, this is our Premium Plan. You get upgraded access when you contribute to the home,” I said sweetly.

Victor, to his credit, caught on by day three. He cornered me in the kitchen.

“Okay, what are you doing?”

“I’m treating your mom like the guest she insists she is,” I said, stirring a pot of lentils that no one really wanted to eat.

He rubbed his temples. “You’re being petty.”

“She’s been here for three months, Vic. I’ve asked nicely. I’ve been patient. But she’s not a guest anymore. She’s a full-on roommate who doesn’t pay rent, doesn’t clean, and somehow has turned into a human houseplant.”

He sighed but didn’t argue. I think he finally saw it too—the imbalance, the absurdity.

The final straw? Linda had invited her bridge friends over one afternoon. Without asking. They sat in my living room, drinking my wine, laughing about how she was “crashing with the kids for a bit” like it was some sort of spa retreat.

So, that night, I printed a very official-looking document: a “Guest Stay Extension Request Form,” complete with a signature line, a $250 deposit line item, and an expected date of departure.

I slipped it under her door.

The next morning, she stormed into the kitchen, cheeks flushed, clutching the form like it was a court summons.

“What the hell is this?” she asked.

“Oh,” I said, feigning confusion. “Just part of the new guest policy. For long-term stays, we require a formal request to extend, along with a contribution to household expenses. You know, standard stuff.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Her face turned red—not from anger, but embarrassment. The silence stretched long enough that I could hear the fridge humming.

Victor stood behind me, arms crossed.

“Mom,” he said finally, “maybe it’s time we helped you find your own place.”

She didn’t respond right away. But something in her eyes shifted. She wasn’t used to being challenged—not by her son.

Two weeks later, Linda moved into a cozy two-bedroom apartment five blocks away. I even helped her pick the curtains. We were civil. Maybe even friendly again. Sometimes, distance does make the heart grow fonder.

The best part? At her housewarming, she handed me a plastic tray of cookies and said, “You don’t have to help clean up. You’re a guest.”

I nearly choked on my wine.

Sometimes, the best way to handle a disrespectful “guest” is to give them exactly what they asked for—and a taste of what that actually means.

Would you ever dare pull something like this? Like, comment, and share if you’ve ever had a guest who forgot they were one.