When my future mother-in-law, Linda, invited me over for tea, I thought she wanted to bond before the wedding. I thought maybe she’d share sweet family stories or give me advice about married life. Instead, she handed me a list of 25 luxury gifts she expected me to buy for her—one for each year she had “invested” in raising her son, Jake.
That’s when I started wondering what kind of family I was really marrying into… and how far Linda was willing to go.
The Invitation
You know that creepy feeling when someone’s acting nice but your instincts are screaming, “Danger, danger!”
That’s exactly how I felt when Linda called me three weeks before the wedding.
Jake and I had been together almost three years, engaged for six months. His family seemed okay on the surface, but Linda was a different story. She still called Jake her “baby boy” and even cut his steak for him at barbeques.
I told myself she was just overprotective. I could deal with that.
Then came the phone call.
“Sweetheart,” Linda cooed, her voice sugary but sharp underneath, “I was hoping we could have a little woman-to-woman chat before the big day. Why don’t you come over for tea tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure,” I said, though a bad feeling crept into my stomach. Still, I convinced myself this might finally be a chance for us to connect.
Tea with Trouble
The next day, I showed up at her perfectly polished doorstep with a bottle of wine, hoping to make a good impression.
Linda opened the door wearing a crisp cardigan and that smile—you know, the one that looks warm from far away but icy up close.
“Come in, dear,” she said, leading me into a beige, uncomfortable-looking living room. “I’ve made chamomile.”
She poured tea into delicate china cups that probably cost more than my rent. I braced myself for small talk about the wedding or funny Jake stories.
But instead, she slid a folded paper across the coffee table toward me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Oh, just a little something I put together for you,” she said, smiling like she’d just passed me a family recipe.
I unfolded the paper—and nearly spit out my tea.
The List
Linda’s “gift list” had 25 items. And not just any items—extravagant, luxury things like:
- Louis Vuitton handbag.
- Cartier Love bracelet.
- Tiffany diamond pendant.
The list went on—Gucci scarf, Hermès perfume, spa trips, Chanel No. 5, first-class flights to Hawaii. All in all, things that probably cost more than Jake and I earned in a year.
“Linda…” I chuckled nervously, trying to process. “What exactly is this?”
She sipped her tea and gave me that fake smile again. “That’s your repayment list, sweetheart. One gift for every year I invested in raising Jake.”
My brain froze. “I’m sorry… what?”
“You’re getting a finished product, thanks to me,” she explained. “Motherhood has no price, of course, but in this case, I have named one. And I think you’ll find it quite reasonable.”
Reasonable? The list had diamond earrings, vintage Dom Pérignon, even a professionally filmed thank you video.
This woman was insane.
“Linda,” I said carefully, “marriage isn’t a business deal. I don’t owe you anything for raising your own son. Nobody told me I’d have to pay a dowry.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “If you can’t honor the years I spent raising him, maybe you don’t value family the way we do. If you want to join this family, a little material appreciation will prove it.”
I left with the list crumpled in my purse and a pounding headache.
Breaking the News to Jake
Back home, Jake was cooking dinner.
“How was tea with Mom?” he asked cheerfully.
I dropped the paper on the counter. “She gave me a list of gifts I’m supposed to buy her to ‘prove’ my commitment.”
Jake laughed. “Very funny. What did she really say?”
“Jake,” I said, dead serious, “I’m not joking.”
His smile vanished. He read the list carefully, and I watched his face shift from disbelief to horror to anger.
“She can’t be serious.”
“Oh, she’s dead serious.”
Right there, he called her. I stood close enough to hear Linda’s calm, self-righteous voice repeating the same nonsense: “If she can’t honor the years I spent raising you, maybe she doesn’t value family.”
Jake hung up, looking gutted. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea she’d… do this.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said, though deep down, I wondered what other surprises his family had in store.
Public Humiliation
I thought it was over. But I was so, so wrong.
Two weeks later, at Jake’s cousin’s engagement party, Linda decided to strike again.
Right as dessert was being served, she stood up, raised her glass, and said, “When you marry into a family, you don’t just marry the person. You honor the people who raised them. Some of us are still waiting on our tokens of appreciation.”
The silence was brutal. Every eye turned to me. My face burned.
Jake shot up. “Mom, stop this. Now.”
But the whispers had already started. That’s when I realized: this wasn’t just ridiculous anymore. It was toxic.
Something had to be done.
My Revenge Plan
Linda’s birthday was coming up. She had been dropping hints nonstop about which “gift” from her list I’d be starting with—the Cartier bracelet.
But I had other plans.
I went to the dollar store and spent an afternoon putting together 25 “special” gifts.
- A plastic tiara with fake gems.
- A cat calendar (she hates cats).
- Off-brand perfume that smelled like air freshener.
- A chipped “World’s Best Mom” mug.
- A rubber duck in sunglasses.
- A roll of toilet paper with “For all the crap you’ve put me through” written in gold Sharpie.
Each gift was wrapped beautifully with ribbon, tissue paper, the works.
Linda’s Birthday Dinner
Her birthday dinner was at her favorite fancy restaurant, with the whole extended family present. Perfect.
During dessert, I wheeled in a big decorative box.
“Linda,” I said sweetly, “I wanted to give you something special. Here are 25 gifts—one for each year you raised Jake.”
Her eyes lit up. This was it. Her grand reward.
She opened the first gift: gummy worms.
Her smile flickered.
The second gift: a mini stapler. Guests started exchanging looks.
The third: motel soap. Someone stifled a laugh.
By the tenth gift—a rubber duck—the whole table was giggling. Jake’s aunt was biting her lip, his sister was red from laughing.
Finally, she reached gift #25: the toilet paper roll. She read the golden words out loud, and the room erupted.
Jake clapped. His dad hid behind a napkin, laughing. Even Linda’s sister whispered, “About time someone did that.”
Linda slammed the box shut. “You’re mocking me!”
I looked her dead in the eye. “No, Linda. I’m honoring you—exactly as you demanded. You never specified the value.”
She shot up, chair crashing behind her, grabbed her purse, and stormed out, leaving her cake untouched.
The Aftermath
The rest of the dinner was… actually fun. Everyone was relaxed, whispering thanks to me. “Finally,” they said.
The next day, Jake laid down the law: respect me as his future wife, or stay out of the wedding.
Linda’s been silent ever since—and the peace has been glorious.
So yes, I gave her 25 gifts. But I also gave her a 26th: silence.
And honestly? The biggest gift of all was watching her family finally laugh at the queen who had ruled with guilt and manipulation for way too long.