the boundaries, she’d snapped them entirely.

But why? Pamela and I had always had a rocky relationship, but this was downright disturbing. And how did she even get into our house?

The next day, I called in sick to work.

I lurked in the hallway, determined to catch my thieving MIL in the act.

Right on schedule, at 2 p.m. Pamela let herself in.

I waited as she went through her now-familiar routine: wine, cheese, a little caviar for good measure.

Then she headed for the bedroom.

The moment she started rifling through my closet, I stepped into the room to confront her.

“Enjoying yourself?” I asked.

Pamela screamed, spinning around so fast she nearly toppled over. “Christine!

I — I was just—”

“Just what?” I kept my voice eerily calm, even as rage boiled under my skin. “Just breaking into our house? Just eating our food?

Just trying on my underwear?”

She blushed, but instead of shame, I saw indignation in her eyes.

“I was checking to make sure your wardrobe still suited you! As Samuel’s mother, I have a responsibility—”

“To what? Make sure your son’s wife dresses to your standards?” I crossed my arms.

“Where did you get a key?”

“Samuel gave it to me!” she shot back. “He said I could stop by anytime!”

I almost laughed. “Really?

That’s interesting, considering he’s been just as confused as I was about the missing food.”

Something flickered across her face… fear, maybe? But it was quickly replaced by that familiar self-righteous expression I’d grown to hate over the years.

“Get out, Pamela.” I took her by the elbow and marched her to the door. “And give me the key!”

She pulled herself away from me and glared at me like I was something nasty she’d just scraped off her shoe.

“This is my son’s house, too, Christine. And I’ll drop by whenever I like!”

She stormed off then, her nose in the air. But it was clear this was far from over.

That night, I showed Samuel the footage.

His face went from confused to horrified to furious in the span of 30 seconds.

“I never gave her a key,” he said when I asked him about it, his voice tight with anger. “How the hell did she get one?”

We got our answer the next morning when Pamela showed up, acting like nothing had happened.

Samuel blocked the doorway. “Mom.

Where did you get the key?”

She blinked innocently. “Oh, that? I just made a copy!

For emergencies, you know.”

“Emergencies,” I repeated flatly. “Like emergency wine drinking? Emergency dress-up sessions with my clothes?”

Pamela looked sadly at Samuel.

“Well, maybe if you spoiled your Mommy with more delicious food and bought me the beautiful clothes you buy for your wife, I wouldn’t have been so curious.”

I’d had enough. It was time to end this.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to give us back every copy of that key you made.”

She scoffed.

“And what if I don’t?”

Samuel dropped a brand-new lock set on the table. “Then you’ll be wasting your time trying to break into a house you can’t get into anymore.”

Pamela stood there, her face twisting with barely contained rage. Then she yanked a key from her purse and slammed it onto the counter.

“Fine! But don’t expect me to help you when you need me!”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “Oh, we never did.”

She stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.

She spent the next few weeks sulking, refusing to apologize or even acknowledge what she’d done wrong.

Samuel got the brunt of it as she bombarded him with texts and calls about how unreasonable I was being, and how he’d regret this if we had an emergency.

But he didn’t let her manipulate her way back into our lives.

I changed the locks that same day. Now, every time I open my fully stocked fridge or slip into an unworn dress, I smile, knowing my home is finally, truly mine again.

And if Pamela wants to know what I’m wearing or eating these days? Well, she’ll just have to use her imagination.

Source: amomama