Our seventh anniversary trip to Maui was supposed to be paradise—just Liam and me reconnecting after years of parenting chaos and home renovations. For three glorious days, it was. We slept in, walked hand-in-hand on the beach, and remembered why we fell in love.
Then Judith arrived.
My mother-in-law appeared on the beach like a tropical storm in a floral muumuu, announcing she’d flown in because she “thought we might get lonely.” The woman who’d encouraged us to take this romantic getaway had secretly followed us—leaving our three kids with a friend—and immediately inserted herself into every moment.
She hijacked our sunset sail, crashed our private dinners, and even convinced Liam to abandon our spa night because she “had nightmares.” By day three, I’d had enough.
While Judith slept, I booked her on Maui’s most grueling all-day adventure tour—volcano hikes, hula lessons, jungle safaris—all under the blazing sun. When she returned that evening looking like she’d wrestled a hurricane, I sweetly asked if she wanted to continue the week-long package I’d “accidentally” signed her up for.
She was on a flight home by dinner.
As we waved goodbye, I whispered: “I may not be first in Liam’s life, but I won’t be pushed aside.” The rest of our trip? Pure, uninterrupted bliss.
