My DIL Took Over My Bathroom, Used All My Products, and Left a Mess, So I Taught Her a Lesson in Respect – Story of the Day

I love my daughter-in-law, but after we moved into the same property, she started treating my bathroom like her personal spa. When she used up my products and left me to clean the mess, I decided it was time she learned a little lesson in respect.

When I retired, my big dream was to relax and spend quality time with my family.

I used a chunk of my savings to build a cozy mother-in-law suite behind the family home and invited my son, Aaron, to move into the main house with his wife and two children.

They had their space, and I had mine, but we were still together. It seemed like the perfect arrangement, but I was wrong.

It seemed like the perfect arrangement, but I was wrong.

My DIL, Heather, and I had a good relationship. She often stopped by, and we bonded over the important things: lotions and spa products.

So, when I treated myself to an expensive new face cream, I was excited to show it to her.

"Look at this, Heather," I said, holding out the heavy, frosted jar. "Smell that. Isn't it divine?"

Heather's eyes lit up. Before I could say, "Just a tiny bit," she dug her fingers in and scooped it out like ice cream!

She dug her fingers in and scooped it out like ice cream!

"It's incredible!" she declared, already dipping back in for another generous dollop.

A voice in the back of my mind, that old, cynical narrator that lives inside all mothers, whispered, "You just offered an inch, Barbara. Watch out, because that inch is about to turn into a mile."

And you know what? That voice was absolutely right.

"You just offered an inch, Barbara. Watch out, because that inch is about to turn into a mile."

One Tuesday, I had lunch with two of my book club friends, Carole and Janice, and invited them back to see my little apartment.

But when we reached my front door, it was wide open.

I thought someone had broken in, but then I heard the cartoon theme music blasting from my living room.

When we reached my front door, it was wide open.

I stepped inside with Carole and Janice on my heels.

My two grandkids were sprawled on my cream-colored couch. Snack wrappers were scattered around them like fallen leaves.

Heather must have used her spare key again.

"Guess my family beat me home," I joked. I tried to sound casual, but in truth, I felt invaded.

I tried to sound casual, but in truth, I felt invaded.

Then, the bathroom door opened.

Heather stepped out, wrapped in my plush new robe, her face covered in my avocado face mask. She was massaging her chin with my new, expensive jade roller, smiling as if she were at a spa.

"Hey, Barbara!" she chirped. "Your foot spa is amazing! I just used the lavender soak. My skin feels like silk."

That was the first, horrible moment I truly felt that my sanctuary was no longer mine.

I truly felt that my sanctuary was no longer mine.

A few days later, I opened my bathroom door to a fresh wave of horror.

Wet towels covered the floor, the counter was sticky with pink lotion, and my expensive rose-scented face cream had been scooped out like frosting from a cake.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

When I bent to pick up a wet bath rug, my foot slid on a puddle of soapy water.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Fear flashed through me as I toppled over.

I twisted and grabbed at the granite counter. A jolt of pain ran up my left wrist, and I banged my right elbow hard enough to numb my forearm.

For a terrifying moment, I imagined myself lying on the cold tile, helpless, unable to reach the phone, all because someone couldn't bother to wipe up a few drops of water.

Fear flashed through me as I toppled over.

A wave of cold fury washed over me.

I would have to sit Heather down and talk to her, but I didn't want to ruin our relationship. I'd need to be diplomatic, but to the point.

That was the plan, until I went onto Instagram. There was Heather, smiling broadly, skin glowing under my fancy, soft-focus bathroom lighting.

The caption read: "Self-care day at my MIL's — love her fancy spa stuff!🛀"

That was the plan, until I went onto Instagram.

The comments were what really got me.

"Must be nice having such a generous MIL!"

"You should move in with her, LOL!"

I stared at the screen, my cheeks burning. For one reckless, blinding moment, I considered snapping photos of my trashed bathroom and tagging every single one of those commenters, including Heather.

I stared at the screen, my cheeks burning.

But I stopped myself. That would be petty, and I wasn't looking for revenge; I was looking for a way to teach Heather a lesson.

Sitting Heather down for a talk wouldn't work, I realized. It would just lead to tears, defensiveness, and family tension.

I needed something more… visceral.

I wasn't looking for revenge; I was looking for a way to teach Heather a lesson.

The solution came to me in a flash of genius.

***

That Saturday, I walked over to the main house with a wicker basket.

"Hi, honey," I said to Heather, who was folding laundry on the couch. "I thought I'd pop over and spend some time with the kids. I thought we could do something fun at your house today."

"Oh, that's great, Barbara!" she said, looking pleasantly surprised. "What did you have in mind?"

"I thought we could do something fun at your house today."

I was sweetness itself, all smiles and good cheer as I showed her the contents of the basket: bubble bath, glittery bath bombs, bath crayons, fizzy foot soaks — all the good stuff.

"A spa day!" I announced with far too much enthusiasm. "Let's give the little ones a spa day."

Heather, bless her heart, didn't question it. She just seemed happy I was taking the kids off her hands.

I ushered the kids into their bathroom without her suspecting a thing.

I showed her the contents of the basket: bubble bath, glittery bath bombs, bath crayons, fizzy foot soaks — all the good stuff.

"Okay, darlings," I said, gathering them around the tub. "Time for a spa day! Let's make bubbles just like Mommy does at Grandma's!"

I wasn't subtle.

I poured in the entire bottle of bubble bath and then dropped in a glitter bomb that looked like a disco ball had exploded.

"Time for a spa day! Let's make bubbles just like Mommy does at Grandma's!"

The water immediately turned a violent, unnatural blue.

Within minutes, the tub was hissing and foaming like a science experiment gone rogue, and the kids loved it.

I'd helped them change into bathing suits. They both climbed in and started splashing at the bubbles, sending waves crashing against the sides of the tub and over them, onto the floor.

The fine glitter clung to the tiles and bath mat like confetti at a particularly messy wedding.

They both climbed in and started splashing at the bubbles, sending waves crashing against the sides of the tub and over them, onto the floor.

I laughed and clapped my hands, encouraging the chaos.

"Come on, splash a little more, my darlings!" I shouted over the sound of their delighted squeals.

They gladly complied. Soon, they were scooping their hands into the water and tossing bubbles at each other.

I held out the basket. "Help yourselves, sweethearts. Everything in here is for you to have fun with."

I held out the basket. "Help yourselves, sweethearts. Everything in here is for you to have fun with."

Over the course of a few minutes, every single bath bomb was in the water, fizzing up the existing bubbles.

The foam rose higher and higher. I watched with a smile as the kids scooped up entire armfuls to throw at each other.

Soon, the bathroom was covered in glitter and piles of foam that were slowly collapsing into puddles.

Soon, the bathroom was covered in glitter and piles of foam that were slowly collapsing into puddles.

The door burst open, and Heather appeared.

Her mildly concerned expression fast turned to horror as she surveyed the glitter and foam-covered bathroom.

"Barbara, what on earth is going in here?"

"I told you, we're having a spa day," I replied with a smile, the picture of sweet, grandmotherly innocence.

Her mildly concerned expression fast turned to horror as she surveyed the glitter and foam-covered bathroom.

"But, the bubbles! They're everywhere! The water is running onto the floor! Look at the glitter!"

She was practically hyperventilating, pointing a frantic finger at the shiny blue film forming on the tiles.

I let the moment hang there, looking at the chaos, then back at her frantic face.

"Now you see, sweetheart." I leaned in just a little. "Cleaning up a spa takes a lot longer than enjoying it, doesn't it?"

"Cleaning up a spa takes a lot longer than enjoying it, doesn't it?"

I didn't wait for her to reply. I gathered my things, leaving her staring at the foamy, glitter-bombed catastrophe.

***

The next day, there was a tentative knock on my door.

Heather stood there holding a neatly folded stack of new towels and a replacement jar of that expensive face cream.

There was a tentative knock on my door.

"I'm sorry, Barbara." Her voice was quiet and sincere. "I didn't realize how much I was imposing. Or how messy I was. That bathroom…" She shuddered. "That glitter is never coming out."

"You are still welcome here, Heather," I told her truthfully. "I love having you over. But you know the drill from now on, right?"

She nodded quickly. "I'll bring my own towels and leave the place exactly how I found it. I promise."

"I didn't realize how much I was imposing. Or how messy I was."

Share this story with your friends. It might inspire them and brighten their day.

If you enjoyed this story, read this one: Renovating my childhood home was the proudest moment of my life. So when my sister said I should hand it over for her son's well-being, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Then she brought our parents into it — and that's when everything started spiraling out of control. Read the full story here.

This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to info@amomama.com.