The Full Story:
It was a running joke that wasn’t funny. Every time my in-laws came over, my mother-in-law, Brenda, would disappear for fifteen minutes. She always claimed she was “using the guest bathroom,” but the guest bathroom is downstairs, and I would always hear footsteps creaking on the floorboards directly above us—in our master bedroom.
I’d find my jewelry box unlatched. My closet doors slightly ajar. Once, I even found my journal moved from the back of my nightstand to the front. But whenever I confronted her, she would gasp and clutch her pearls. “I would never snoop! I was just looking for a tissue! You’re being paranoid.”
My husband, Dave, always took her side. “She’s just confused about the layout, honey. Let it go.”
Last night, I couldn’t find the skeleton key we usually use to lock the bedroom door. I panicked knowing they were coming for a roast dinner, but then I realized this was the perfect opportunity to prove I wasn’t crazy.
I knew exactly where she went first: the bottom drawer of my dresser, where I kept my personal documents.
I went into the garage and dug out a leftover Halloween decoration from last year—a motion-activated, battery-operated box. When the lid is lifted, a mechanical, hairy spider the size of a dinner plate jumps out and lets out a high-pitched screech.
I placed the box in the bottom drawer, buried under a few sweaters so only the lid was visible, looking like a jewelry case.
Dinner was going well. We were halfway through the pot roast when Brenda wiped her mouth and stood up. “I’m just going to freshen up,” she announced.
“Guest bathroom is down the hall to the right,” I said pleasantly.
“Oh, I know, I know,” she waved me off.
She walked out of the dining room. We heard her footsteps bypass the bathroom. We heard them go up the stairs. We heard them walk down the hall and enter our bedroom.
Dave looked at me, frowning. “Why is she going upstairs?”
Before I could answer, my MIL’s scream tore through the ceiling.
It wasn’t just a yelp; it was a blood-curdling shriek of terror, followed by a loud CRASH and the sound of something breaking.
Dave and I sprinted up the stairs. We burst into the bedroom to find Brenda sprawled on her back on the carpet, breathing heavily. The bottom drawer of my dresser was pulled all the way out. The mechanical spider was vibrating on the floor next to her leg, screeching. And scattered around her were my bank statements and passport, which had been hidden under the spider box.
“I… I…” she stammered, pointing at the spider, her face pale as a sheet.
Dave looked at the open drawer, then at his mother. “Mom,” he said, his voice low. “You said you were going to the bathroom. Why are you digging through Sarah’s sweater drawer?”
“I was looking for… for…” she trailed off, unable to come up with a lie that explained why she was elbow-deep in my clothes.
She didn’t stay for dessert. And for the first time in our marriage, Dave finally locked the door—not to keep me out, but to keep his mother out.
