ff her makeup smudges.

Another in the kitchen after scrubbing her crusty plates. One draped dramatically over the couch where she left crumbs.

She scowled every time she saw one. “What’s with all these signs?”

“Oh, it’s just a reminder that housekeeping is an important part of any guest experience,” I said with a smile.

Her eye twitched.

I almost felt bad. Almost.

By Thursday, I stopped making dinner. Instead, I left a neatly stacked pile of takeout menus in Linda’s room.

That evening, she stood in the kitchen, looking bewildered.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Oh, I figured you might want to pick something yourself! Guests should have options,” I said, handing her a menu. “There’s a great Chinese place down the street.

Or pizza, if you’re in the mood.”

Her lips pursed. “But you always cook.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t want to impose.

Enjoy!”

Jason, of course, just grabbed a menu and went along with it, oblivious as ever.

Sunday morning, Linda found an envelope on her dresser. Inside was a neatly written invoice:

🧺 Laundry Services – $50

🧼 Maid Service – $30

☕ Coffee & Breakfast Supply Fee – $20

🏨 Hotel Convenience Charge – $15

At the bottom, I’d written:

“Thank you for staying at the Family B&B! Please settle your balance by the end of your stay.”

The second I heard her outraged gasp, I knew—this was going to be good.

Sunday morning, I was halfway through my first sip of coffee when I heard it—an outraged gasp from down the hall.

Seconds later, Linda stormed into the kitchen, waving the bill I had left on her dresser.

Her face was red, her lips pressed so tightly together they nearly disappeared.

“What is this?” she demanded, shaking the paper at me like I had personally insulted her.

I took another slow sip of coffee. “Oh, just an invoice for your stay. Standard hospitality rates.”

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head.

“I am not paying to live in my own son’s house!”

I tilted my head. “Oh? I thought you were a guest?

And guests don’t stay for free, Linda.”

For a moment, she was too stunned to speak. Then she turned to Jason, who had just walked in, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Jason,” she sputtered, thrusting the bill at him. “Your wife is trying to charge me for staying here!”

Jason blinked at the paper, then at me.

“Babe,” he said slowly, “is this real?”

I smiled sweetly.

“Of course not. I’m not actually charging her. I’m just following her logic.

Guests don’t clean up after themselves, so they pay for service instead.”

Jason looked between me and his mother, realization sinking in. Meanwhile, Linda’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.

“This is ridiculous!” she shrieked. “I don’t feel welcome here anymore!”

I raised an eyebrow.

And then—oh, it was beautiful—she said it.

“I guess I’ll just find somewhere else to stay!”

Jason hesitated, but I shot him a look that said, I dare you to argue.

He sighed, rubbing his face.

“Mom… maybe that’s for the best.”

And just like that, Linda was gone within a week.

The house was peaceful again. No more dirty dishes left on the table. No more towels on my furniture.

No more waking up to passive-aggressive comments.

Jason, finally free from his guilt, admitted, “Okay… maybe you had a point.”

And me? I poured myself a fresh cup of my special coffee, stretched out on my guest-free couch, and savored my victory.

Linda may have been too special to clean up after herself. But in the end?

She cleaned herself right out of my house.

Source: amomama