I watched the clock tick down with dread, knowing that in exactly 17 minutes, Hurricane Monica would make landfall.

She wasn’t just visiting—she was invading. And every single time she set foot in my house, she would claim my bedroom as if it were hers, ignoring any hint of personal space.

I looked over at Jake, my husband, as he peered through the blinds. “They’re early,” he muttered, his voice betraying the frustration we both shared. Monica was never one for punctuality, so of course, they showed up ten minutes ahead of schedule.

I took a deep breath and smoothed my shirt, plastering on the smile I always wore when preparing for battle. “Ready for the storm?” I asked.

Jake squeezed my hand, his expression matching mine. “We’ve weathered worse.”

Had we, though?

For five years, I’d watched Monica stomp her way into our home, straight into our bedroom, where she would throw her luggage on our bed, scatter her things across the counters, and leave a trail of scented candles that smelled so overpowering I couldn’t breathe.

One of my most vivid memories was last Christmas, when I opened a drawer and found my jewelry box emptied out. Monica’s excuse? She needed “the space.” The nerve. She always left the room a mess, never once considering the boundaries I had so carefully established in our home.

The doorbell rang, and Jake greeted his parents with practiced enthusiasm. “Mom! Dad! Great to see you!”

Monica swept in like royalty, air-kissing Jake’s cheeks before turning her calculating gaze on me, sizing me up with that sharp look she always gave. Frank, her ever-polite husband, followed behind her, carrying their luggage, barely speaking a word.

“Always lovely to see you both,” Monica said, the sweetness in her voice at odds with her rigid posture. “Won’t you brew some coffee while we get settled? Traveling is so tiring.”

Before I could respond, she was already halfway down the hall. I exchanged a glance with Jake—he knew this was about to go down, but he didn’t have the spine to stop it. He never did when it came to his mother.

“Mom,” he called after her, his voice almost apologetic. “We’ve set up the guest room for you this time.”

Monica paused mid-stride, shot him a look, and then flashed that sinister smile. “Oh, that’s sweet, but you know how my back gets on those guest beds. You young people can handle it.”

And just like that, she started her march toward our bedroom, leaving us both standing there, stunned.