By the night before my flight to Phoenix, I’d learned to read my mother-in-law’s weather like barometric pressure: a headache meant a storm, an extra hour on our couch meant a tornado.
Paula has never liked me—it’s not subtle, it’s sport. Three and a half years with her son Dave, a June wedding, a home we’re building together… none of it thawed the polite frost she wears like a cardigan. She smiles when she says things that sting. She calls it concern. I call it warfare with lace trim.
We’d finished dinner late. Dave’s dad left early, mumbling about an early morning, but Paula stayed rooted. She rubbed her temple and sighed theatrically. “Traffic is terrible at this hour,” she said, settling deeper into the cushions. “I don’t trust myself to drive like this.” Dave offered rideshare options. She pressed a hand to her chest as if he’d suggested hitchhiking with a chainsaw. “In this neighborhood? Besides, I’d hate to wake your father.” The guest room was mine that night—open suitcase on the bed, clothes folded in piles—for a 6 a.m. flight and a client presentation that could tip my quarter. When Dave told her she could stay, she lit up. “You’re such a thoughtful daughter-in-law, Miley. So accommodating,” she said, tasting every word like sugar.
At 1:30 a.m. I woke with that ice-pick jolt: my passport. It was still in the jewelry box, not in the suitcase. Dave was asleep, soft snore steady. I slipped out, padded down the hall toward the guest room—and stopped. A slice of light cut across the carpet from the cracked door. Inside: fabric whispering, zippers sighing. I put my palm on the jamb and looked through.
Paula wasn’t tossing in bed with a headache. She was kneeling on the floor beside my suitcase, the overhead lamp bright on her hands as she worked. At first my brain filed it as meddling—gross, invasive, but familiar. Then she reached into her own handbag and pulled out a tangle of black lace. Not mine. Tags still dangling. She laid it in my suitcase like a museum curator placing an artifact. My stomach dropped. She reached again, produced a folded note, and set it on top. Even from the door I could read the bubble letters in blue ink: Can’t wait to see you again, babe! She smoothed the paper, satisfied. And then the last piece: a man’s tie, navy with fine silver stripes—wrong brand, wrong taste, definitely not Dave’s. She nestled it beside the lingerie and nodded to herself.
My hands were shaking so badly I had to brace my phone against the doorframe to get the camera steady. I hit record. It felt unreal and yet exactly like Paula: venom sealed in faux care. She zipped the suitcase shut, turned off the light, slid into the guest bed, and stilled. I stood there another ten minutes, heart pounding in my throat, until the rage went from white-hot to cold steel. If I stormed in now, she’d cry. She’s world-class at tears on cue. She’d say she was “helping organize.” She’d call me paranoid. So I went back to bed and stared at the ceiling until the birds started their shift.
Morning arrived with its bright, innocent face. I put on my best presentation suit and steadied my voice. Paula was at the kitchen island with coffee, glossy and composed. “All ready for your big trip?” she chirped. Dave appeared with my suitcase. “I’ll load this in the car.” Paula tilted her head. “Have you taken everything, dear?” then turned to Dave with theatrical concern. “Honey, maybe open it and check? Just in case she forgot something.” My heart thudded once, hard. I kept my face neutral. “I’m sure it’s fine; I don’t want to be late.” Dave, oblivious, popped the zipper.
The world slowed. Lace. Note. Tie. They landed on our table in a spill of early light, obscene in their suggestion. Dave’s eyes went immediately to mine, confusion giving way to hurt and then anger he didn’t know where to point. Paula gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh my goodness,” she breathed, voice trembling with manufactured shock. “Miley, what on earth is all this? Are you cheating on my son?” If the Academy awarded statuettes for sabotage, she’d keep hers on the mantle.
