When my mother-in-law, Jane, suddenly moved in claiming her house had “flooded,” I was caught off guard—but I played nice.

Joe, my husband, had failed to mention this little arrangement, brushing it off like it was temporary.

But that night, I overheard them whispering in the kitchen. Jane hadn’t come because of plumbing issues—she came to “keep an eye on us” because we’d been married six years with no kids.

She said she’d “handle it.” My stomach dropped.

Instead of confronting her, I flipped the script.

The next morning, I cleared out our master bedroom and gave it to Jane—complete with her favorite floral bedding,

lavender candles, and a “Welcome Home” basket.

Joe and I squeezed into the tiny guest room,

but I wore a polite smile like armor.

Every day, I pampered her while Joe started to unravel under her constant nagging about vitamins,

parenting books, and fertility-friendly food schedules. She even banned pizza.

By day four, Joe was cracking. He sat on the edge of the bed, miserable and overwhelmed, clutching a stack of baby books.

That night, I watched him eat a kale salad in silence while Jane reminded him of his “fatherhood duties.”

He finally broke. “I booked her a hotel,” he whispered to me.

“I can’t take another day of this.”

At breakfast, he delivered the news.

Jane protested, of course, but had no choice but to accept.

As the door finally shut behind her, Joe collapsed onto the couch like a man set free.

I joined him, grinning. “So… kale for dinner?” I teased.

“Never again,” he groaned.

And just like that, peace was restored—and Jane learned I’m a lot more strategic than she ever gave me credit for.