When my mother-in-law Jennifer moved in, I tried to stay optimistic. But her polite facade quickly cracked. My closet was subtly rearranged, my perfume shifted, and even her rose-scented hand cream lingered on my clothes. I knew she was snooping—but I had no proof.
Mark, my husband, dismissed my concerns. “She’s not a spy,” he said. But I felt invaded. So I set a trap.
I planted a fake diary deep in my closet. In it, I wrote that I felt unloved, that I was thinking of leaving Mark—but hadn’t told anyone. It was bait. And Jennifer took it.
At dinner, with family gathered, she slammed her fork down and accused me of hiding secrets. She referenced the diary, smug and triumphant. But I stayed calm.
“How did you know about that diary?” I asked.
She stammered. I pressed. “You just admitted to snooping.”
Then I dropped the truth: “That diary was fake. I planted it to catch you.”
The room fell silent. Mark was stunned. Jennifer was humiliated. My trap had worked.
Later, Mark apologized. “I should’ve listened,” he said.
I didn’t need revenge. I needed truth. And now, I had it.
