When my mother-in-law moved in during her home renovation, I thought the constant criticism of my cooking was bad enough. But when my meals started vanishing while my husband and I were at work, and she denied being the culprit, I knew I had to find a way to expose her.
A few months ago, my mother-in-law, Gwendolyn, decided to renovate her house, starting with her kitchen. She ripped out perfectly good cabinets and tore up the old linoleum floor without thinking twice.
Construction worker demolishing a kitchen for renovation | Source: Midjourney
The issue is that she didn’t bother to budget for any of this chaos. The renovation turned into a money pit quickly. Even worse, the contractor kept finding new problems, adding expenses left and right. Additionally, some of their work required her to be away, as it was dangerous for her health.
Unfortunately, her bank account was drying up faster than a puddle in the desert.
My husband, Sammy, and I sat at our kitchen table, staring at his phone as she explained this little situation. First, she detailed all the new things she was adding to the renovation, like a better sink, and then she revealed what she wanted from us.
Construction worker pointing at something during a renovation | Source: Midjourney
“I just can’t possibly afford a hotel while the work gets done,” Gwendolyn said, using just the perfect amount of desperation in her voice to convince Sammy. “And you know how sensitive my sinuses are. I simply can’t stay in one of those budget motels.”
Just as I expected, my husband gave me that pleading puppy-dog look he always got when his mother needed something. With a deep breath, I nodded. “Of course, Gwendolyn, you can stay with us,” I said, already regretting the words as they left my mouth.
Man in his 30s with a pleading look sitting at a kitchen table where there’s a phone | Source: Midjourney
“Oh, wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I knew I could count on my darling boy. And you too, of course, Paulina.”
After she hung up, I told Sammy I wanted to set some ground rules in writing. I wanted to protect us. Luckily, he agreed. I printed out some boundaries and stipulations for her stay and asked her to sign them.
Gwendolyn wasn’t too pleased about signing anything, but she didn’t have another option. Besides, we figured her stay would be a few weeks, tops. But, oh boy, were we wrong.
Woman holds pen while reading a paper that says “Rules” | Source: Midjourney
The weeks stretched into months, with no end to the renovation in sight. Each update from the contractor brought new delays and complications.
But that wouldn’t be a problem if Gwendolyn’s attitude wasn’t so terrible. From the moment she arrived with her four massive suitcases, it was like living with a critical, nitpicking tornado.
Nothing I did was good enough. Every meal I cooked became an opportunity for her to remind me of my apparent shortcomings, and she always managed to do it when Sammy wasn’t around.
Woman in her 30s standing in a kitchen looking upset while an older woman in the background holds dishes | Source: Midjourney
One evening, I’d spent hours making a pot roast with all the trimmings. The kitchen smelled amazing, and I’d even used my grandmother’s secret recipe. After I turned off the stove, Gwendolyn peered into the pot and wrinkled her nose.
“Oh dear,” she said, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Are you sure that’s cooked through? Poor Sammy, having to live with someone like you! How can anyone eat THIS?” She shook her head slowly. “In my day, we knew how to properly care for our husbands.”
Woman in her 50s looking down at a pot on the stove in the kitchen with disgust | Source: Midjourney
I gripped the mixing spoon so tight my knuckles turned white. “The meat thermometer says it’s perfect,” I replied through clenched teeth.
“Well, those things aren’t always reliable,” she sniffed, poking at the meat with a fork. “And really, Paulina, did you have to use so much garlic? Sammy won’t like it.”
Actually, this was one of my husband’s favorite dishes, but I let it go. It was easier. But eventually, her nagging about housework pushed me to my breaking point.
Pot roast cooking on a stove with a meat thermometer | Source: Midjourney
It happened during yet another dinner where she’d spent 20 minutes describing how her bridge club friend Martha made the same dish, only “so much more flavorful.”
“If you don’t like my cooking,” I said, setting down my fork with a small clatter, “then you’re more than welcome to buy your own groceries and make your own meals.”
I expected World War III to break out right there in our dining room. Instead, Gwendolyn dabbed her lips with her napkin and smiled. “What a wonderful idea,” she said sweetly. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
Woman in her 50s dabs napkin on mouth during dinner | Source: Midjourney
I frowned but continued eating.
For a few days, everything seemed fine. We had separate shelves in the fridge and separate cabinets for dry goods. But then things started getting weird.
I’d come home from work, exhausted and starving, only to find that the leftovers I was counting on for dinner had vanished into thin air.
The first time it happened, I thought I was losing my mind. The roast chicken I’d meal-prepped the night before was gone. Even the fruit bowl I’d filled that morning was almost empty.
Cut up fruit in a bowl in a fridge | Source: Midjourney
My husband and I were both working long hours at our jobs, so there was only one possible culprit. But every time I tried to bring it up, Gwendolyn denied eating anything.
One evening a few days later, after discovering my leftover piece of lasagna gone, I cornered her in the kitchen. “I’ve noticed that the food I cook keeps disappearing,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Do you have any explanation for that?”
Again, she had the same excuse. “You must be imagining things. You and Sammy probably just ate it and forgot,” she said, patting my hand condescendingly.
Woman in her 50s patting the hand of a woman in her 30s in the kitchen | Source: Midjourney
I knew it was her and considered why she might be hiding it. Perhaps, her money issues were worse than I thought, and she was too proud to say anything.
Well, she wasn’t too proud to live with us this long while insulting everything I did, so I shook off any sympathy I felt and focused on how I could find proof of her stealing.
That’s when I remembered her allergy to nuts and lactose intolerance. As any good host, I had gotten rid of nuts and bought oat milk for the duration of her stay, but enough was enough.
view from the top, a cinematic, dramatic photograph of a 50-year-old woman’s hands patting a younger woman’s hand, background is a kitchen counter, afternoon light, vivid colors –ar 3:2
I ran a quick errand later, stopping by the grocery store on my way home.
The next morning, I got up early and made a special casserole that I knew smelled too delicious to resist.
Into it went a generous amount of real heavy cream and a healthy sprinkle of crushed cashews. Still, I wrote a big label in red marker: “DANGER! Contains nuts and dairy!” and stuck it right on top of the dish.
I also told her about it. “Don’t eat this,” I warned Gwendolyn before leaving for work. “It will make you sick!”
Woman in her 30s in work clothes in the kitchen pointing at someone like a warning | Source: Midjourney
She barely looked up from her morning paper. “For the last time, I’m not the one touching your food,” she replied with a sniff. “Remember, we agreed to keep things separate.”
I nodded, but I knew she would eat it. When I got home later that day, the scene that greeted me was hilarious, but I had to contain my amusement.
Gwendolyn stood in our kitchen, practically vibrating with rage. Her face had turned an alarming shade of red, and angry hives covered her whole body, which she kept scratching frantically.
Woman in her 50s with red hives on her face from an allergy in the kitchen | Source: Midjourney
Meanwhile, I set my purse down on the counter, taking my time. “My goodness,” I said calmly. “What’s going on here?”
She whirled around, pointing a shaky finger at the half-empty casserole dish. “You!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “You tried to kill me with that food!”
“But I thought you said you didn’t eat my meals?” I asked, tilting my head slightly. “Also, I warned you. Did you even read the label?”
The look of realization that crossed her face was priceless. Her eyes widened in horror as she fumbled in her purse for her EpiPen. She quickly injected it into her thigh.
Woman in her 50s holding prescription anti-allergen medication in the living room | Source: Midjourney
A second later, Sammy walked in. As he loosened his tie, he looked from his red-faced, panicked mother to me and frowned. “What’s all the commotion?” he asked.
“Your wife,” Gwendolyn gasped out between wheezes, “tried to kill me!”
Shaking my head, I explained everything calmly. “I made a casserole with nuts and dairy. I labeled it clearly and warned her not to eat it because I know about her dietary restrictions. She still did it.”
I pointed to the label, still stuck to the container.
Container of food on top of kitchen counter that says “Danger, contains nuts and dairy” | Source: Midjourney
Before Sammy could respond, Gwendolyn let out a groan and clutched her stomach. She bolted for the bathroom, leaving us standing in the kitchen.
“I’ll sue you for this!” her voice carried through the bathroom door. “You deliberately tried to poison me!”
When she finally emerged, looking pale and disheveled, I was ready. I pulled the document she had signed months earlier from one of the kitchen drawers.
A woman in her 30s is holding a folded paper that reads “Rules” | Source: Midjourney
“I think you’ve forgotten about our first agreement, the one you signed when you came here,” I said, holding it up. “We weren’t charging you rent, but you agreed to split the utilities, and,” I paused for effect, “not to touch our food or groceries unless we were having dinner together.”
I pointed to the clause in question, which she’d initialed herself.
Woman in her 30s pointing at a piece of paper in her hands in the living room | Source: Midjourney
“At first, we shared meals because it was nice to sit together and have the same food,” I continued, raising one eyebrow at her. “But you decided you didn’t like anything I made, so this rule had to be followed.”
“But–” she blubbered, but Sammy chimed in.
“Mom, she’s right. You agreed,” he said, crossing his arms. “Paulina has been more than nice, even though you’ve been difficult. Admit it was your fault for not heeding her warning, and from now on, stop eating our food unless we specifically want to share.”
Man in his 30s with arms crossed looking disappointed in the living room | Source: Midjourney
Gwendolyn’s face turned an even brighter shade of red… this time from shame. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again, but no words came out.
Then, she stomped to the spare room and stayed there until morning. Surprisingly, her house renovations magically sped up after that incident, and she was out of our house in only a week.
During that time, though, she didn’t complain at all. She barely talked to us. She made her own meals, and we even shared some dinners, where I assured her that nuts and dairy weren’t involved.
Woman in her 50s in the kitchen cutting ingredients with concentration | Source: Midjourney
One time, Gwendolyn actually complimented my chicken with caramelized onions. “This is… good,” she’d said grudgingly, grabbing another serving.
I smiled, a little proud of myself. Maybe, you were never too old to learn a good lesson.
The day she left, she surprised me with a hug and a quiet, “Thank you, Paulina. For everything.”
I smiled and told her she could visit any time. We would always be there to help. Just for the record, I wasn’t proud of what had to be done to get to that point. But you have to stand up for yourself, especially with relatives who can’t appreciate what you do for them.
Woman in her 30s on the front porch waving with a smile | Source: Midjourney
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
Little Boy Brings Food To Beggar & His Dog Daily, One Day Boy Sees Dog Barking On His Doorstep – Story Of The Day
A policeman’s son befriends a homeless man and his dog and brings them food every day. Then the dog appears unexpectedly and alerts him to an injustice.At twelve, Brian Devlin was small for his age, and not very athletic. His father, Gary, didn’t really understand his shy, bookish son. His son was nothing like him…
He had been a tall, strapping, boisterous boy, always up to his ears in mischief. Gary tried to build his son’s self-confidence, but the harder he tried, the more Brian seemed to pull away.
Brian was smart, that Gary couldn’t deny, and he had a scholarship at a prestigious private college on the other side of town. The boy was scared of taking a bus, but since the school was close to his work, Gary picked him up every afternoon.
Gary was a desk Sargeant at the local precinct, and by the time his work ended at 5:00 p.m., the school day was long over. In the winter, Brian waited in the library and did his homework. But in the summer, he sat on the school steps and waited for his dad, soaking up the sunshine.
One afternoon, when Gary arrived, Brian wasn’t on the steps. He was outside the school gates petting a dog. Brian looked up at his dad with a happy grin.
Don’t make assumptions about people before you know who they are.
“Look, Dad,” he cried, then he said to the dog, “Dance!”
The dog hopped up onto its back legs and did a little jig, front paws up in the air and its tongue lolling out happily.
“Isn’t that so cool?” the boy asked.
“Yes,” Gary said, surprised by the enthusiasm Brian was showing. “Whose dog is that?”
“It’s Carl’s,” Brain said, and pointed at a man sitting on the pavement and leaning back against the school fence. The man was in his forties and he was clearly homeless.
A ragged bundle of blankets lay on the ground next to him, and he was unshaven. The dog, however, was well cared for. It was a Golden Retriever, and its fur was groomed and gleaming.
The man shrank back when Gary looked at him, so he said to his son, “Come on, now, it’s time to go.”
On the way home, Gary said, “Listen, Brian, I want you to stay away from that man and his dog, OK?”
“Carl’s OK and I love Goblin!” Brian protested.
“Goblin?” Gary asked. “Is that the dog’s name? Well, I’m sure Goblins’ a good dog, but I don’t want you befriending vagrants, Brian. Do you understand?”
“But dad…” Brian protested.
“Not another word,” Gary snapped.
The next day, when Gary came to fetch Brian, the boy was studiously sitting on the steps reading a book, but that night, his wife co
mplained that half a roast chicken was missing.
“I don’t understand!” she cried. “I set it aside to make sandwiches for Brian’s lunch and now it’s gone!”
Gary looked over at Brian and the boy looked so innocent that he was immediately suspicious. Was Brian taking food to school for that vagrant and his dog?
Gary started keeping an eye on the pantry and noticed that tins of sausages kept vanishing. He now knew that his son was stealing so he could feed the dog and the homeless man every day. Gary felt a pang.
His son, who had such difficulty making human friends, had bonded with the dog. It was a pity it belonged to a vagrant, a man who might be dangerous.
Two days later, Gary got off work early and when he arrived at the school, he caught Brian outside the gates. He had a bag in his hand and he was saying: “Hey guys, I have your favorite spaghetti, Carl. And for you boy, your favorite sausages!”
“BRIAN!” he thundered. “What are you doing?”
The boy looked up at him, and for the first time, Gary saw fear in his son’s eyes. Immediately he felt a surge of anger
It was this derelict’s fault that his son was afraid of him! He stepped forward and clenched his fists. “Get away from that man,” Gary shouted. “Get into the car!”
That night, Gary and his wife sat down and talked to Brian about the dangers of befriending strange men. Brian shrugged it off. “Dad, I know about stranger danger and bad touching. Carl is NOT like that, he’s nice. You can tell he’s a good person because Goblin loves him so much, and Goblin’s the BEST, smartest dog.”
“Brian,” Gary said quietly. “I’m sure Goblin’s a great dog, but you know what? Hitler had a great dog and he loved him, and I’m sure the dog loved him back. A good dog does NOT make this vagrant a good person. Please stay away from him, Brian!”
“NO!” shouted Brian, and he pushed back his chair. “Carl is my friend and I love Goblin! Why do you always have to spoil everything? I HATE YOU!”
That night, Gary made a decision. He was going to solve this problem his own way…
That Saturday, Brian woke up early to the sound of anxious barking. He thought sleepily, “That sounds just like Goblin!”
Brain jumped out of bed and looked out of his window. It WAS Goblin, and he was standing on the porch barking anxiously and looking very unhappy.
“Goblin!” Brian cried as he opened the door, and immediately the dog ran to him. Goblin put his head in Brian’s lap and started whining. “What’s wrong, boy? Where’s Carl?”
But the dog just whined and shivered so Brian decided to do something he’d always been afraid to do before — go to his dad’s work and ask for his help.
Gary was stunned when he saw Brian at the precinct with the dog by his side. “Brian!” he gasped. “What are you doing here? How did you get here?”
“Dad!” he cried. “I think something bad happened to Carl. Goblin came looking for me and he’s very scared…” But Goblin wasn’t looking scared, he was looking up at Brian’s dad and growling.
Brian had never heard Goblin growl before. “Dad!” he asked. “What have you done?”
Gary flushed. “Carl was loitering near a school and he was warned off twice, so we arrested him!”
“But dad!” Brain cried. “He did nothing wrong! He’s not well, he needs help…You don’t know anything about him! He’s a veteran and he was in the bomb squad and he worked with sniffer dogs to find explosives. That’s why Goblin’s so well trained. He’s a good man and you arrested him because he’s sick!”
“He’s not SICK!” Gary cried angrily. “He’s a bum!”
Brian had tears in his eyes. “No, dad,” he said softly. “He doesn’t drink or anything, and most of the time he talks to people who aren’t there. He needs help.”
Gary was ashamed of himself, mostly because he couldn’t admit that there was a part of him that was jealous of Carl and his easy friendship with his son.
He did some investigating and discovered that Carl had a sister in a neighboring state who had been looking for him for years. He contacted Carl’s sister and she was overjoyed.
She took Carl home and enrolled him in an outpatient mental health clinic immediately. Goblin went too, of course. Brian missed Carl, but mostly he missed Goblin.
Then one day his dad came home with a big grin on his face and a strange lump under his jacket. He lifted out a wriggling puppy and presented it to Brian. “There you go,” he said. “You have to name him!”
Brian started crying, he was so happy. “Goblin,” he gasped. “His name is Goblin Two!”
What can we learn from this story?
Don’t make assumptions about people before you know who they are. Gary assumed Carl was a drunk and a danger before he knew anything about him.
Kindness and compassion are the greatest of virtues. Brian’s empathy led him to befriend Carl, and he helped him find his way back home.
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