She Insulted My Skincare – So I Gave Her a Taste of Her Own Medicine
I’ve never been the kind of woman who enjoys tearing others down. You know the type—always gossiping, always judging. That’s not me. My friends call me a “girl’s girl.” I believe in lifting women up, not stepping on them to feel taller.
When one of my girlfriends is down, I’m the first one at her door with chocolate and kind words. I’m all about supporting each other. Life’s already hard. Why make it harder for each other?
That’s why I fell in love with my husband, Arnold. He’s just like me—kind, respectful, the type of man who builds people up. When we met two years ago, I was drawn to the way he talked about his friends and family with warmth. We got married a year later, and it’s been a dream. We wanted to build something peaceful, something good. No drama.
But then came Janice.
Janice is married to Arnold’s older brother, Ben. I’d heard stories, sure, but nothing prepared me for the walking storm cloud that she is. My first real run-in with her was six months ago, when I invited the whole family over for dinner.
I cleaned for days, cooked Arnold’s family’s favorite meals, even bought fresh flowers. I wanted everything to be perfect.
Then Janice walked in like a queen entering a peasant’s hut. She had perfect hair, nails painted like she was headed to a fashion shoot, and a designer bag I knew cost more than our mortgage. Her giant Stanley cup sparkled with overpriced stickers.
She didn’t even sit down before the judging started.
“Oh, this is so cute,” she said, eyeing our living room. “It’s like…dollhouse cozy. Must be fun playing real life in such a tiny space. I’d go crazy without a real closet, but you’re making it work!”
I felt my face burn. But I forced a smile. “Thanks,” I said. What else could I do?
During dinner, she kept going.
“Amelia, you know what would make you look so much more awake? A real concealer. That brand you use is very, um…drugstore chic. But bless your heart for trying!”
Arnold squeezed my hand under the table. I saw the tight line in his jaw. We’d agreed to keep the peace, no matter what. I didn’t want to cause tension between the brothers. So I smiled, nodded, and changed the subject.
But Janice wasn’t done.
She poked fun at everything—our secondhand furniture, my “creative” cooking, even the flower arrangement.
After the family left, Arnold and I cleaned up in silence. He scrubbed a plate too hard and finally muttered, “That was…”
“Awful,” I finished. “She spent the whole night insulting me.”
“I’m sorry, babe,” Arnold said. “I had no idea she was like that.”
But that dinner was just the beginning.
From that day on, I made a choice: I wasn’t going to stoop to her level. I’d kill her with kindness. Every time she made a passive-aggressive comment—like “You’re so brave for wearing that color!” or “Your decorating style is…so you!”—I just smiled and changed the subject.
But her words stuck in my head. After every family gathering, I’d stare at myself in the mirror, wondering, Does my makeup really look that bad? Is our house really that small?
Arnold would hug me and whisper, “Don’t let her get to you. She’s just insecure.”
“I know,” I’d say. “But it still hurts. We’re supposed to be family.”
I kept smiling. I kept being the bigger person.
Until three weeks ago.
Ben called Arnold in a panic. “Their building flooded,” Arnold said, hanging up the phone. “They need a place to stay while it’s fixed.”
My stomach dropped.
“They can stay here,” I said. My voice sounded calm, but inside, I was screaming.
Janice and Ben moved into our guest room. Janice called it “quaint” and said it was like “camping, but indoors.” Somehow, even our generosity was beneath her.
At first, things were okay. Ben was polite and helpful. Janice treated our house like a hotel. But then I noticed something strange in the bathroom.
My expensive moisturizer was disappearing fast. The new eye cream I’d been saving? Half gone. My fancy vitamin C serum looked like someone had used a spoon to scoop it out.
At first, I thought maybe I was using too much. Maybe I was imagining it.
Until I caught her.
One morning, after my shower, I found Janice standing in front of the mirror. In her hand was my $80 retinol serum—my holy grail.
“Janice?” I said, holding my towel tighter.
She jumped. “Oh! Amelia! I was just… I ran out of mine and thought I’d borrow a bit. You don’t mind, right?”
“Actually, that’s a pretty expensive serum,” I said calmly. “And it’s meant for my skin type.”
She blinked. “What? No! I have my own products. I’d never!”
Sure, Janice. I never saw her “own products” in the bathroom. Not once.
But the stealing didn’t stop. I confronted her a few more times, and each time she swore, “I’d never use your stuff. I don’t need it.”
Then came the final straw.
One night during dinner, with Ben and Arnold sitting right there, Janice smiled at me sweetly and said, “Bless your heart, Amelia. You’re so brave for using drugstore skincare. I could never sacrifice my face like that.”
This, from the woman who’d been draining my high-end products like a thirsty vampire.
That night in bed, I made a decision. I wasn’t going to play nice anymore.
The next morning, I went into the bathroom and found an old empty serum bottle. I cleaned it out and filled it with something very special: a prescription keratosis treatment my dermatologist gave me for a stubborn patch on my elbow.
It was strong stuff—designed to peel thick skin. Not dangerous, but definitely not meant for a regular face.
It looked like a normal serum. No smell. Nothing suspicious.
I placed it on the bathroom shelf next to my other products. Then I waited.
The next morning, I was sipping coffee when I heard a scream from down the hall.
“Oh my GOD, what’s happening to my face?!”
Janice ran into the kitchen, her face red and blotchy, fanning herself in a panic.
“Amelia! Something’s wrong! My face is on fire!”
I blinked innocently. “Oh no! Did you try a new product?”
“I… I think I used that little bottle on the left? I thought it was for, like, everyone?”
I tilted my head. “Oh, sweetie, that’s a prescription. It’s for thick skin treatment. Definitely not a face serum.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You should label that! You can’t just leave that out!”
I sipped my coffee. “Or maybe don’t use other people’s things without asking? Just a thought.”
Janice blinked. The realization hit her—I knew. And I’d let her walk right into it.
She stormed out of the kitchen, red-faced and fuming.
The rest of their stay? Silent. Peaceful. She didn’t touch a single one of my products. She didn’t make another snide comment about my home, my skincare, or anything else.
When they finally left a week later, Ben smiled and said, “Thanks again for everything. You guys are lifesavers.”
Janice didn’t even look at me.
As their car pulled away, Arnold wrapped his arm around me.
“You seem proud of yourself,” he said, smirking.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said sweetly. “I’m just glad we could help family in their time of need.”
Sometimes karma just needs a little push.
And that, my friend, is how I got my skincare—and my dignity—back.