When her favorite clothes start vanishing, Stephanie dismisses it as forgetfulness — until she discovers her mother-in-law secretly selling them online, calling them “trashy.” Living together during renovations just got interesting, and the family will never forget this Thanksgiving dinner.
I thought I had a good relationship with Lucia, my mother-in-law, until she moved in with us while her home was being renovated.
A woman standing beside several suitcases | Source: Midjourney
It started with small things, minor disagreements about why I put rosemary in my pot roast, and the “proper” way to clean the hardwood floors.
I tried to be a good host, but Lucia did not make it easy. One day, I returned from my part-time job to discover she’d rearranged everything stored in the kitchen cupboards. She also insisted on hanging the laundry outside to dry, even though I asked her not to.
“The fresh air just makes it smell better,” she said.
Laundry hanging on a clothesline | Source: Pexels
“That’s what the scented fabric softener is for,” I replied, but she just wouldn’t listen.
“You’re both very headstrong and like to do things your way, it’s natural you’ll clash from time to time,” Michael said when I ranted to him over a date night dinner. “And besides, Mom will be going back to her place in another few weeks. It’s not that long.”
“It may as well be forever,” I sighed.
Then my clothes started disappearing.
A confused woman standing in front of a closet | Source: Midjourney
It started with a semi-sheer dress. I wanted to wear it to a work function but when I opened my closet, it was gone.
“Lucia, have you seen my dress?” I called as I headed to the basement to search the laundry. “The mauve one, with the ruffles?”
“The one that looks like a curtain?” Lucia popped her head out of the living room as I passed by. “No, Steph, I don’t think I have.”
A woman shrugging | Source: Midjourney
I never did find that dress and the missing clothes situation got worse. My skinny jeans vanished next, followed by my fuschia pink sundress and — this one really got me — my favorite silk blouse that Michael had bought me for our anniversary.
I was going half-crazy thinking I’d misplaced them. I unpacked my entire closet and reorganized it three times. Every time, I noticed something else that was missing like a favorite bra, my lace pantyhose, and a grey pencil skirt.
But the real kicker? I discovered the truth about what was happening to my clothes purely by accident.
Close up of a frowning woman’s face | Source: Midjourney
I couldn’t sleep one night and ended up scrolling through Reddit. There, I stumbled upon a post showing MY CLOTHES, with a caption that made my blood boil: “Cleaning out my DIL’s trashy wardrobe. Anyone want to buy some clothes that no respectable married woman should wear?”
I nearly choked on my chamomile tea. The username might as well have been “LuciaTheThief” because who else could it be?
The woman who’d been living in my house for three months, eating my food, and criticizing my cooking, was now apparently stealing my clothes.
A woman staring at her phone screen in shock | Source: Midjourney
“Oh my God,” I whispered to myself, scrolling through the comments.
Some people wanted to buy the clothes while others had posted nasty criticisms of my fashion sense. She’d replied to some with remarks like, “My poor son doesn’t know how to tell her these clothes are inappropriate” and “She dresses like she’s still in college.”
I clenched my fists so hard that one of my acrylic nails popped off. I was tempted to storm into the guest bedroom right then and demand my clothes back, but then I came up with a better plan.
A woman scowling at her phone | Source: Midjourney
Thanksgiving was right around the corner and this year, Michael and I were celebrating with members from both our families. Twelve people in total, including Michael’s older brother and one of his aunts.
“Revenge is a dish best served with turkey and cranberry sauce,” I muttered as I took screenshots of Lucia’s Reddit post.
I set my phone aside and fell asleep with a smile on my face.
A cell phone on a nightstand | Source: Pexels
On Thanksgiving, I graciously told Lucia to go ahead and prepare the meal according to her family recipes. It kept her busy while I hurriedly completed the final steps of my plan to teach her a lesson.
Afterward, I set the table according to Lucia’s specifications. It looked perfect by the time everyone arrived. Michael squeezed my hand under the table as everyone sat down, probably thinking I was finally making an effort with his mother.
If he only knew.
A woman standing at a dining table | Source: Midjourney
When everyone had filled their plates, I stood up, wine glass in hand. “I’d like to make a toast,” I announced.
“To family,” I began, “and especially to Lucia, who’s been such a… presence in our home these past few months.” A few chuckles around the table. “She’s taught me so much about generosity and giving to others.”
Lucia beamed, probably thinking I’d finally learned something from her endless lessons about charity and community service. That’s when I reached under the table and pulled out the garbage bag I’d stashed there earlier.
A woman lifting a trash bag | Source: Midjourney
“In fact, she’s generously donated all of these clothes to the women’s shelter downtown,” I continued, “accidentally” letting the bag split open.
Out tumbled Lucia’s favorite cashmere sweater, her designer jeans, and — oops — was that her La Perla lingerie skittering across the hardwood floor?
Lucia took one look at the clothes, all items I’d carefully chosen because I knew she loved them, and spat her wine out like a fountain.
A shocked woman seated at a dining table | Source: Midjourney
The table went silent. Michael’s sister Jane stopped mid-chew. Then, surprisingly, Michael’s cousin Sarah started clapping.
“That’s so wonderful of you, Aunt Lucia!” Sarah exclaimed. “You’re always talking about giving back to the community. How generous of you to donate your designer clothes!”
Others joined in the applause, praising Lucia’s apparent selflessness. I watched as her face cycled through confusion, horror, and fury, knowing she couldn’t say a word without exposing her misdeeds.
A smug woman | Source: Midjourney
It was the perfect trap.
The rest of dinner was deliciously awkward, with Lucia pushing food around her plate and avoiding everyone’s eyes.
I’d never seen her so quiet during a family gathering. Usually, she’d be holding court, sharing stories about Michael’s childhood, or dropping not-so-subtle hints about grandchildren.
After dinner, Lucia cornered me in the kitchen.
An angry woman | Source: Midjourney
Her face was flushed, either from anger or the three glasses of wine she’d needed to get through dessert.
“How dare you humiliate me like that?” she hissed, hands shaking as she gripped the counter. “You went too far, Stephanie. Way too far.”
I continued loading the dishwasher, taking my time with each plate. “How dare I? That’s rich coming from someone who stole my clothes and tried to sell them online while calling me trashy.”
A woman loading a dishwasher | Source: Midjourney
“What? I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I paused, took out my phone, and showed her the screenshot I’d taken of her Reddit post. The blood drained from her face and her jaw went slack.
“I… well, those clothes were inappropriate—”
“Those clothes were mine,” I cut her off. I scrolled to the next screenshot. “Every single comment you made, every attempt to sell my things — it’s all here.”
An angry woman | Source: Midjourney
“And let me make something crystal clear: my house, my clothes, my life,” I continued. “You don’t get to make those decisions for me anymore. Actions have consequences, Lucia. Remember that next time you think about overstepping.”
The next morning, I found all my missing clothes neatly folded outside my bedroom door. Every single item was there, from the semi-sheer dress to the silk blouse.
No note needed — the message was clear.
A stack of folded clothes on a hallway table | Source: Pexels
I gathered them up and took them to my closet, then spent an hour sorting through my older clothes.
When Lucia came down for breakfast, I was already at the door with my donation bag.
“Going to the shelter?” she asked quietly.
“Yes. With my own clothes… the ones I actually want to donate.”
A woman carrying a trash bag | Source: Midjourney
She nodded, then surprised me by saying, “I’m sorry, Stephanie. I was wrong.”
I paused at the door, bag in hand. “I know you were.”
“It’s just…” she sighed, wringing her hands. “Those clothes, some of them seemed so revealing, and I worried about what people would think. About you, about Michael, about our family. But I handled it all wrong. It won’t happen again.”
“No,” I agreed, “it won’t.”
A woman holding a trash bag | Source: Midjourney
As I drove to the shelter, I couldn’t help but smile. Sometimes it takes a little public humiliation to teach someone about boundaries. And if Lucia ever tried something like this again? Well, I still had those Reddit screenshots saved on my phone.
Just in case.
But for now, we had reached a tentative peace. The following weeks brought fewer criticisms, more respect for personal space, and — miracle of miracles — not a single comment about my wardrobe choices.
A woman relaxing on a sofa | Source: Midjourney
Sometimes, it takes a dramatic gesture to reset a relationship.
Here’s another story: After weeks of planning the perfect Christmas Eve, my husband left the kids and me at home to attend his staff-only office party instead. But when another wife’s call revealed the truth about couples being invited, I decided it was time for a surprise visit.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
I Accidentally Found a Hidden Nanny Cam in My Bathroom and Went Pale When I Learned Why My 11-Year-Old Son Put It There
Finding the hidden camera tucked under my bathtub was terrifying, and realizing my son had put it there was even worse. But his tearful explanation made me realize he was on a mission to reawaken a part of me I thought was lost forever.
The jigsaw puzzle on our kitchen table had stayed the same for weeks, and I was getting worried. My son, Drake, and I used to love them, but things were much different now.
A puzzle on a table | Source: Pexels
These days, he would rush straight to his room after school and shut the door firmly behind him. That is… after coming home later than usual.
I stirred the pasta sauce and checked my phone again: 6:45 p.m. Two hours late, just like yesterday. Through the kitchen window, I watched our neighbors walking their dogs and laughing together.
Our house used to buzz with that kind of energy. Now it felt like Drake and I were living in separate worlds, connected only by quick hellos and leftover dinners. Did this happen to all pre-teens?
A woman concerned | Source: Pexels
A few minutes later, the front door creaked open.
“Hey, Mom.” Drake’s voice floated through the hallway, followed by the thud of his backpack hitting the floor.
“Kitchen,” I called out happily. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
He poked his head around the corner. I saw his messy hair covered by a backward baseball cap. Something about his eyes made me feel like my boy was back, even for just a second.
Boy with a backwards baseball cap | Source: Pexels
But they soon darted to the floor when I looked at him. I knew something was going on, but I had no idea how to address it. My boy almost seemed older than his few years.
“Sorry I’m late. Chess club ran long.”
“Chess club?” I raised my eyebrows. “Yesterday it was math tutoring. And Tuesday was yearbook committee.”
“Oh yeah, I do all those now.” He shuffled his feet. “Can I eat in my room? Got tons of homework.”
Math book and notebook | Source: Pexels
I gripped the wooden spoon tighter, accidentally dripping tomato sauce onto the stovetop, and decided enough was enough. “Drake, what’s really going on?” I asked, turning and putting one hand on my hip.
“Nothing! I told you, just busy with school stuff,” he shrugged and moved further into the kitchen. Without meeting my gaze, he grabbed a plate, scooped up some pasta, and disappeared before I could press further.
Pasta dish | Source: Pexels
I sighed and wondered to the heavens for the millionth time if I should intervene. Maybe I wouldn’t get an answer from up above, but I could try to find some of my own.
I checked the hallway, and his door was shut as usual, but he had left his backpack in the living room. It was my chance.
Inside, crumpled between textbooks, I found a piece of paper with an address scrawled in unfamiliar handwriting: “1247 Maple Street. Don’t be late. This is it.”
Backpack on the floor | Source: Unsplash
What was going on? I wondered, horrified.
***
That night, I found myself going through his old baby photos, spread across my bedroom floor like pieces of a life I barely recognized anymore.
There he was, two years old, grinning with spaghetti sauce all over his face. That happy little boy used to tell me everything. Now he barely looked at me.
Toddler covered in spaghetti sauce | Source: Midjourney
The parent-teacher conference from last week played in my head.
“Drake seems… distracted lately,” Mrs. Peterson had said, sliding his failed math test across her desk. “He’s been falling asleep in class. When he’s awake, he’s always scribbling in his notebook, but it’s not notes from the lesson.”
How could he be getting a grade like that with math tutoring? Was it time to pull the plug on all other clubs?
A math test | Source: Pexels
Either way, I knew sleep wouldn’t come, so I decided to take a shower.
The bathroom was my sanctuary, the one place I could relax and belt out old songs without anyone hearing. Tonight’s selection was “Sweet Child O’ Mine.”
The steam rose around me as I hit the chorus, and I remembered how I used to dream of being on stage.
A woman washing her hair | Source: Pexels
“Where do we go now?” I sang, letting my voice soar like it used to at the coffee shop open mics when my future hopes were far grander than what reality allowed.
Sadly, those wishes were extinguished the moment, Tom, Drake’s father and my ex, left us for his new family in Seattle.
But now wasn’t the time to dwell on the past again. The present was much more important. I finished cleaning myself up and exited my shower. As I dried my hair, I felt the pull on my ear and heard a clink on my tiled floor.
A woman drying up | Source: Pexels
My earring! I bent down to get it and saw the crystal’s shining light reflecting from just under the bathtub. Except… something else caught my eye.
There, hidden under the edge, was an old nanny cam I used when Drake was a baby. And it was ON. I immediately went pale. But I examined the angle. It would only be recording my feet. I didn’t get it.
Still, my hands shook as I took it and carefully wrapped myself in a towel to march straight to Drake’s room. The sound of his furious typing stopped when I pounded on the door.
A woman holding a small camera | Source: Pexels
“Just a minute!” he called out, and I heard drawers being opened and shut. What in the world?
“Drake, open this door right now!”
Finally, I heard footsteps and the door swung open.
He stood there in his oversized gaming headphones, and his own face turned white as soon as I held up the nanny cam.
A boy with headphones | Source: Pexels
“Drake, what is this? Why was this hidden in the bathroom?!” I asked, as my anger and bravado turned to extreme worry.
When he remained silent, I gulped and asked, “Have you been… recording me in the bathroom?”
His eyes widened at that. His expression was terrified. “Oh no… Mom, you weren’t supposed to find that. IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK. I can explain!”
“Then start explaining.” I pushed past him into his room and looked at his computer. The screen showed some kind of video editing software. Oh, no! What is he doing?
A laptop on a desk | Source: Pexels
But before I could panic more, Drake spoke. “I…” He slumped onto his bed. “You weren’t supposed to find out yet.”
“Find out what? That my son is making videos of…” I couldn’t even say it.
“No! Mom, listen,” he pleaded as tears welled up in his eyes. “Remember when you used to sing at the coffee shop open mics? Before Dad left?”
The question caught me off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?”
A woman looking confused | Source: Pexels
“You were so happy then. Now you only sing in the shower, when you think no one can hear you.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “But you’re still amazing, Mom. I wanted to show you that.”
He reached for his laptop and turned it toward me. His fingers pressed play, and suddenly, the screen showed me… well, a music video.
I saw a sunset over the city and streets filled with people chasing their dreams. But the main part was the soundtrack with my voice, clear and strong. It was playing “My Way.”
A sunset over New York | Source: Pexels
“I met an old man, Mr. Arthur. I’ve been going to his studio after school,” Drake continued. “He’s been teaching me video editing. I wanted to surprise you for your birthday, show you that you shouldn’t give up on your dreams just because…”
“Because your father left?” The words stuck in my throat.
“He owns all these old instruments, and he lets me practice drums while he teaches me about making videos.” Drake’s words tumbled out faster now. “I’ve been doing extra chores for neighbors to pay for studio time. Mr. Arthur says I have a good eye for it.”
A drum set | Source: Pexels
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you worry about everything now.” His voice cracked. “Ever since Dad left, it’s like you stopped believing in good surprises. I thought if I could just finish the video, show you how amazing you still are…”
Tears welled and fell before I could stop them. All this time, I’d been so worried about what he was hiding. Never once did I consider he might be worried about me too.
A woman crying | Source: Pexels
“You could have just talked to me,” I said softly, wrapping my arms around him.
“Would you have listened?” He looked up at me, suddenly seeming older than 11. “You always say you’re fine, but I hear you crying sometimes. And you never sing anymore, except in the shower.”
I pulled him close, feeling his thin shoulders shake. “I’m sorry, baby. I guess we’ve both been keeping too many things inside.”
We stayed in silence for a few minutes before I remembered something. “Oh! Is Mr. Arthur’s studio on 1247 Maple Street?”
A music studio | Source: Midjourney
“Yes!” Drake said, but then frowned. “How did you know?”
“In the interest of honesty…” I began and confessed to rummaging through his backpack. Shockingly, we just laughed at each other.
***
The next day, we visited Mr. Arthur’s studio together. He turned out to be a gentle giant with calloused hands and kind eyes, surrounded by dusty guitars and vintage recording equipment.
Music equipment | Source: Pexels
“Your boy’s got talent,” he told me and showed me more of Drake’s videos. “And so do you.”
And now that the secrets were out, Drake and I finally finished the jigsaw puzzle together. I also sang outside the shower for the first time in years.
What’s more, next week, I’m singing at the coffee shop again. My son will be there, recording every moment. This time, I won’t be afraid of a little camera.
A woman singing a microphone | Source: Pexels
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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