For five years, every time my in-laws visited, my mother-in-law Monica treated our master bedroom like her personal hotel suite—moving my things,

lighting strong candles, and scattering her cosmetics everywhere. Jake, my husband, always made excuses for her, while I quietly endured it.

Not this time.
I had a plan.

Before her arrival, I transformed our bedroom into a scene straight out of a steamy honeymoon brochure.

Lingerie tucked under pillows, massage oils on display, adult toys in the bathroom, and our TV set to a

suggestive queue. I warned her the guest room was ready—but as always, she marched into our room like she owned it.

What she saw must’ve shocked her to her core.

The next morning, Monica looked ghost-pale. She sat silently at the table and finally muttered, “We’ll take the guest room.”

I smiled. “But I thought our bed helped your back?” She flinched. Her husband stared at the floor. Jake nearly choked on his toast trying not to laugh.

They never tried to take our room again. A week later, Monica texted—they’d be booking a hotel for Christmas.

Some call it petty. I call it necessary. In our house, respect is earned—and asking first is mandatory.