After the birth of my fourth child, life was a blur of sleepless nights and constant demands. The one thing I craved was a simple, hot meal, but that was becoming impossible. The problem was my mother-in-law, Wendy, who lived just two blocks away. She had developed a habit of letting herself into our home and eating whatever food I had prepared for myself. It started with my morning coffee and my labeled lunch leftovers. When I confronted her, she would laugh it off, saying I should “label things better.” My husband, Harry, always took her side, telling me to relax and stop overreacting.
The breaking point was pizza night. I had made four individual pizzas for the family. While I was upstairs soothing our vaccinated baby, everyone ate. When I came down, all the boxes were empty. My thirteen-year-old son revealed he had saved three slices for me on a plate, but Wendy had eaten those, too, claiming she thought they were leftovers. As she and Harry sat on the couch laughing, I saw my son’s guilty face and something in me snapped. I realized that polite requests were useless.
The next day, I installed small cameras in the kitchen and meticulously labeled everyone’s food with bright, neon stickers. For my own lunch, I prepared a special meal with a mild, over-the-counter laxative. As I watched from upstairs, Wendy let herself in, saw the labels, and with a huff of indignation, deliberately took the container with my name on it. After she ate it, the consequences quickly caught up with her, sending her rushing to the bathroom. Later, I posted the clear video of her theft on social media, and the court of public opinion was firmly on my side. The fallout was immediate. Wendy was humiliated, and Harry was finally forced to see the truth. Now, Wendy knocks before entering and brings her own snacks, and Harry has learned to cook for himself. I finally have the respect, and the meals, I deserve.
