Some people bring dessert to family holidays—my mother-in-law brought chaos. After what she pulled at Thanksgiving, I decided Christmas would be unforgettable… for both of us.
My name is Sarah. I’m 35, married to Ben, and we have a five-year-old daughter named Chloe, who is the light of our lives. Ben and I have been together for six years.
And I would love to say that I’ve always had a great relationship with my mother-in-law (MIL), Kathy, but that would be a lie so big I’d have to wash my mouth out with soap. From day one, Kathy has never really liked me. She doesn’t scream or fight or cause big blowups — that would at least be honest.
No, she’s more of the slow-drip, passive-aggressive type. The kind who acts sweet in front of others but always leaves behind just enough of a mess to ruin your mood. Every holiday with her is like walking through a garden where the flowers look pretty, but every petal is dipped in vinegar.
Thanksgiving has always been my holiday. Even before Ben and I met, I would host dinner at my tiny apartment, squeezing people around mismatched chairs and serving way too much food. I describe it as my Super Bowl, my moment to shine.
When my husband and I finally moved in together, Kathy and I made a casual deal to “split” the calendar. I’d host Thanksgiving, she would host Christmas. It felt fair at the time, but looking back, I should’ve written up a legal contract with all sorts of clauses.
Every Thanksgiving since then, my MIL has found new and creative ways to sabotage me. One year, she offered to “help” with preparations and then snuck around the kitchen adding salt and pepper to every single dish! Little Chloe was the one who alerted me to the sabotage, saying, “I saw Grandma playing with the food.” That year, the stuffing was so salty you could’ve dried fish on it!
The potatoes were basically inedible. Another year, she managed to “accidentally” burn a pot of beetroots so badly the smoke detector screamed for almost an hour! I’d left the kitchen to use the toilet, leaving the pot cooking low, but a few minutes later, the beets were charred!
The stove had been turned up higher, and I knew the only person who’d do that — Kathy. And one time, I had just finished putting up string lights in the dining room when she offered to “help.” Instead, she snipped right through the cord while “trimming loose ends.”
Every time it was the same routine — a shrug, a quiet “oops,” and a fake smile that made me want to throw mashed potatoes at the wall! It always ended in a mess, and always on my day.
Ben wasn’t blind to it, but he wasn’t confrontational either. He’d say things like, “She’s just trying to help,” or “You know how she is.” But after the beet incident, even he stopped making excuses. He started watching her closely during the holidays, almost as if he were assigned to secret service duty.
Still, it wasn’t enough to stop her. This year, Thanksgiving was supposed to be perfect. It was the first time we were hosting in our new home, a small but cozy place we’d scraped together every dollar to buy.
We weren’t rolling in money, so every dish, decoration, and detail mattered. I went above and beyond this time. My husband and I had spent the entire week preparing.
We cooked, cleaned, and decorated. I wanted it to feel special. I deep-cleaned the house, scrubbing every corner until I could see my reflection in the kitchen tile.
I even cleaned the baseboards and set the table as if it were straight out of a magazine. I also arranged the napkins in perfect fans, made centerpieces out of pinecones and mini pumpkins, and even made homemade rolls for the first time. However, one of the things that made me nervous was that we only had one bathroom for everyone.
In my previous place, I had an en-suite bathroom in my bedroom and another one for guests. The main thing that nagged me, though, was Kathy. I had to keep reminding myself, “Don’t let her get to you this year.
Stay calm,” because having Ben’s mother around always raised my blood pressure. “I swear,” I told Ben the morning of, “if your mom starts one of her little stunts again, I’m not saying a word. I’m just going to smile, nod, and mentally check out.”
He kissed my forehead and said, “Maybe she’ll surprise us with one peaceful holiday.
Let’s give her a chance.”
And for most of the day, it seemed like we had finally hit a truce. Kathy arrived wearing a huge fur-lined coat and carrying a pie she probably picked up from the grocery store, but she was civil. She smiled at Chloe, complimented the table, and even said the turkey “smelled nice,” which was as close to praise as I’d ever heard from her.
I thought maybe, just maybe, we were turning a corner. Dinner went smoothly — no spilled wine, no backhanded comments, and no “accidental” damage. Chloe sat between Ben and Kathy, giggling as she dropped green beans into her milk for fun.
Everyone was relaxed, full of food and warmth. It almost felt normal. Then came dessert.
We had just served slices of pumpkin and pecan pie when Kathy quietly excused herself to use the bathroom. No big deal, right? She’d been sipping wine all night, and she was in her 60s, so fine.
But then 10 minutes passed. Then 20. Ben leaned over and whispered, “She’s been in there a while.”
I nodded, trying to stay calm, though I was already sensing that cold trickle of dread in my stomach.
After 30 minutes, Ben got up and said he was going to check on her, and that’s when Kathy suddenly emerged. She didn’t make eye contact or explain what had taken her so long. Instead, she grabbed her coat, muttered something about “not feeling well,” and said she needed to go home.
She walked right out the front door while Ben called out to her. No thank you, no goodbye hugs, not even a “Happy Thanksgiving.”
The second the door closed, I rushed to the bathroom. What I saw nearly made me scream!
The toilet was clogged so badly that it was practically a fountain! Water had spilled over the edge and was soaking into the bathroom rug. The stench hit me like a slap!
I looked around for a plunger — gone! I had left it in there that morning, but it was nowhere in sight. “Kathy!” I whispered to myself like I was in a horror movie.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Ben came up behind me and stopped cold. “Oh my God,” he muttered. “She didn’t even say anything?”
“She left this and just walked out,” I snapped, pointing to the floor that now looked like a swamp.
We had to spend the next hour managing the mess. Ben unclogged the toilet with his own hands — saint that he is — while I sanitized the floor and aired out the room with every candle and window we had. Chloe stayed in the living room with her cousins, thankfully unaware of the disaster happening on the other side of the house.
