That’s exactly what hit me the second I stepped into my kitchen after two weeks away. My husband and I had escaped to our countryside home for a much-needed breather. No phones, no stress, just the two of us. Before heading out, we’d told our son and his wife, Natalie, that they could stay in our place while we were gone.
“Make yourselves at home,” I’d told them with a smile. “Take care of the place while we’re gone.”
Now I wish I could take those words back.
I gave my husband a look. “Did we leave it like this?”
He blinked and looked around. “Where’s the crock of wooden spoons? The knife block?”
My kitchen had been gutted. The pots, the cookie sheets I’d used every Christmas, even the hand-me-downs from my mother—they were all gone. Like they’d never been there in the first place.
My heart dropped when I realized the iron skillet from our wedding was missing. And the ladle my mother used to stir soup when I was a child. “Natalie,” I muttered, heading up the stairs.
“Oh! You’re back early,” she said, barely glancing up.
I didn’t waste a second. “Where’s my kitchenware?”
She raised her eyebrows but didn’t look the least bit concerned. “Oh. I threw it out.”
I froze. “You… what?”
“It looked awful. So scratched up and old. Honestly, it was kind of gross. I couldn’t cook in that kitchen. Don’t worry—I bought you a new nonstick pan. It’s pink.”
Pink. She bought me a pink pan.
“And,” she added casually, “You had so much clutter. You’ll thank me.”
I bit my tongue and forced a smile. “Thank you… for the favor.”
But behind that smile, I was already cooking up a plan of my own.
If she thought tossing out my kitchenware was helpful, she was about to find out what it felt like to lose something she actually valued.
“You didn’t use that old flour, right?” she asked, without even making eye contact. “I threw that out too.”
I smiled sweetly. “Of course not, dear,” I answered. “Wouldn’t want to poison anyone.”
She gave a little laugh. “Good.”
The second the door shut, I was on my feet.
I made a beeline to my bedroom.
Her vanity was like a shrine—rows of expensive beauty products neatly arranged. Creams, oils, tiny jars with labels I couldn’t even pronounce. Each one screaming luxury.
I didn’t just toss the stuff. I handled every bottle with care, checking labels and placing each one gently inside. I packed it like I was moving antiques.
By the time I finished, the vanity was stripped bare. There was only a faint circle left where her perfume used to sit.
Then I hid the bag.
Not in the trash—that’d be too obvious. I chose a place she’d never think to look. The attic. Behind dusty boxes full of old ornaments. Out of sight, out of reach.
I looked up from my book, completely calm.
“Stuff?” I asked.
Her voice was sharp. “My skincare. My makeup. My everything! It’s gone!”
I tilted my head. “Oh… I thought it was just clutter.”
“You went through my things?!” she shot back. “What the hell, Margaret?!”
Her mouth fell open. “You threw them out?!”
I shrugged. “Why not? You said it yourself—it’s not hygienic to keep old stuff around. And you know me, Natalie. I hate clutter.”
She gasped, clearly stunned. “Those jars cost more than your entire kitchen!”
She spluttered for a moment. “I was helping! That kitchen was disgusting!”
“And I was helping you,” I said firmly. “I even kept your pink frying pan. It’s so… Instagrammable.”
We locked eyes. Neither of us budging.
My son walked in, clearly caught off guard by the standoff. He looked back and forth between us, trying to figure out what he’d just walked into.
“Oh, I’ll tell you,” Natalie barked. “Your mother went through all my stuff, my skincare, my makeup — everything! And then just threw it out like trash!”
I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t throw it out.”
She turned. “You what?”
“I packed it up,” I said as I stood up. “Tucked it somewhere safe. Didn’t toss a single item.”
Her face twisted. “Why would you—”
And suddenly, she got it.
I gave her a knowing smile. “Exactly. Now you understand.”
She didn’t say anything else. Just stared at me, probably trying to figure out how to respond. A few hours later, she gave me an envelope.
“I tallied everything,” she said, quiet this time. “For what I threw out. Even the stuff I thought was junk.”
I nodded, went upstairs, and brought down the black bag. Everything inside was exactly how she left it—nothing missing, nothing broken.
“Oh,” I said casually, “Next time we go away… I’ll ask my other son and his wife to house-sit. They know how to respect someone else’s home.”
“Wow,” he muttered under his breath. “You really don’t mess around.”
I turned to him and smiled softly.
“Sweetheart,” I said with a nod, “don’t ever touch a woman’s kitchen.”
This story was inspired by real people and situations, though some parts have been fictionalized for storytelling purposes. Names, locations, and events were changed to protect identities and create a richer narrative. Any similarities to actual individuals or events are purely coincidental.
The author and publisher do not claim complete accuracy of every detail and are not responsible for how the content is interpreted. This work is offered “as is,”, and any opinions expressed belong to the characters, not the author or publisher.
