Our honeymoon in Florida was supposed to be two weeks of soft mornings, ocean breezes, and candlelit dinners. I’d packed everything—silk nightgown, sunscreen, a romance novel.
Instead, my MIL, Giselle, showed up unannounced on the second morning, claiming she was there to “relax with us.” She followed us everywhere—breakfasts, beach walks, even the pool—criticizing me constantly and calling me “the worst match for her son.”
When she finally “broke her leg” getting into a taxi, she turned our honeymoon into a month of serving her every whim. She rang her little bell like royalty, demanded lotions and pillows, and tried to turn Brian against me.
Then karma struck.
The hotel sent a nurse to check her injury. Giselle stood on her supposedly broken leg without flinching. Later, family caught her moving around light-footed, claiming she was “healing.” She had been faking it the whole time.
Finally, I told her, “You’ve got two working legs. Do it yourself.” Brian backed me up, and she left—silent, humiliated, and never returning.
At last, it was just Brian and me, and I could finally breathe. Peace at last.