When my mother-in-law, Barbara, moved in to “help” with our hectic life, I hoped for relief. Instead, she brought three young women into our home, doing chores and charming my husband, hinting I wasn’t enough. Her scheme pushed me to the edge, but my clever revenge left her speechless.
I’m Laura, 41, navigating a whirlwind of parenting three kids and chasing a career-defining promotion. My daughter, Ellie, wanted a “Rebel” tattoo, while my twin boys tossed books, demanding games. My laptop glared with an overdue presentation, and our house was a mess: a broken gate, leaky pipes, a wild lawn. My husband, Mike, was “busy” with an unpaid internship, leaving me to juggle it all. Our fights over dishes and bills drowned out any romance.
During one argument, as I fixed a shelf, Mike suggested Barbara stay with us. “She’ll help with the kids,” he said. I cringed, remembering her jab that my casserole was “fit for strays.” But I was exhausted, so I agreed, “Temporarily.” Barbara arrived, barely nodding at me before saying, “You look drained, Laura. Try some moisturizer.” She fussed over Mike and the kids, vowing to “organize” our home. I braced for trouble.
Her first dinner was flawless, easing my doubts. But the next day, I heard laughter. In the dining room, a blonde was trimming Mike’s hair, giggling. Two more women appeared: a brunette with laundry and a redhead with flashcards. “Who are they?” I asked, stunned. Mike smiled. “Barbara’s old students, here while their dorm’s renovated. They’re helping.” Barbara smirked, sipping coffee. “Didn’t I mention? It’s temporary.” I was livid—she hadn’t consulted me.
The brunette, Chloe, raved about my boys’ smarts. The redhead, Mia, sorted laundry cheerfully. The blonde, Sophie, finished Mike’s haircut, saying he looked “dashing.” Barbara added, “So refreshed, unlike someone tired.” Her dig hurt, implying I was failing. Alone, she whispered, “Don’t be jealous. It’s a test—does Mike want energy or exhaustion?” I smiled, planning my counterattack.
The next morning, I called in sick and summoned three friends: Sam, a burly landscaper; Dan, a plumber with a quiet charm; and Luke, a handyman with a quick grin. “Meet my helpers,” I told Barbara, who froze. “They’ll fix the pipes, gate, and yard.” Mike stammered, “Helpers?” I echoed, “You’ve been so busy, dear.” The women stared as Sam mowed shirtless, Dan fixed the sink, and Luke tinkered with Mike’s car, joking loudly.
Barbara confronted me, angry. “This is wrong!” I replied, “Like moving in three women without asking?” She snapped, “They’re students!” I grinned, “So are my guys—trade students.” Mike eyed Sam nervously. At lunch, Luke said, “Laura, you’re still a knockout.” I laughed, but Mike stood, “Enough!” Barbara huffed, “No more games!” I showed a photo of Barbara’s laptop: a chart listing the women as “suits” for Mike, noting their “charm” and “youth.”
Mike was floored. “Mom, what’s this?” Barbara muttered, “A precaution.” Mike asked me, “You knew?” I nodded. “Since yesterday.” He sent everyone away, apologizing. Barbara left quietly. Alone, Mike said, “I’m sorry for not supporting you, for Mom’s mess.” I smiled. “I got the promotion.” He hugged me, proud. The storm passed, and I felt victorious, our home peaceful at last.
