When my mother-in-law came to stay “temporarily,” I braced for passive-aggressive critiques. Instead, I walked in one evening to find my bathroom transformed into an impromptu spa—my skincare, plush towels, essential oils, and bathrobe all repurposed for her indulgence. Candles flickered low, steam danced in the air, and soft music played from my Bluetooth speaker. It felt like a luxury retreat—except I hadn’t been invited.
I felt violated. That bathroom was my sanctuary. The next day I confronted her, explaining how personal those items were—I needed boundaries. She laughed, calling me “too sensitive” and said she was just “making the house more luxurious.” My husband urged me to let it go, but I couldn’t.
So I planned my revenge: during her weekly book club at our house, I switched her herbal teas for laxative blends, swapped bath salts for glittery ones that stuck around for days, and hacked the Bluetooth to play jungle sounds. The confusion, the itchiness, the bizarre soundtrack—it was glorious. Finally, she paused. I calmly told her: “You turned my sanctuary into your playground. I needed you to feel what it’s like when something sacred is taken without permission.” She never touched my bathroom again.
