Mother-in-Law Turned My Thanksgiving into a Disaster, I Got My Vengeance on Christmas – Story of the Day

My mother-in-law could not stand me throwing a lovely Thanksgiving dinner and ruined it. She didn't stop at that—she destroyed my late Grandma's most cherished legacy. I got my revenge on Christmas.

As I attempted to perfect my Grandma's pumpkin pie recipe, Eric, my husband, playfully teased me about my culinary mishaps.

"Oh, don't you worry, silly! You'll never forget this Thanksgiving!" I retorted, patting his shoulder gently.

However, when the pie came out burnt again, Eric suggested, half-jokingly, "Andrea, why don't we order all the dishes from a classy restaurant this Thanksgiving?"

So I quietly grabbed Grandma's recipe book and said, "I want to make this Thanksgiving memorable. Only my Mom can help me figure this out so I get the dishes right. I'm calling her over!"

Eric immediately turned and shot me a piercing glare. "Andrea, what do you mean? It's my turn this Thanksgiving, remember? Last year was your family," he whined.

"Eric, I can't leave Mom alone on our first Thanksgiving without Grandma," I retorted.

But he was adamant. "Well, who's asking her to be alone? Tell her to spend time with your brother. My Mom has nowhere else to go. I'm her only family, Andy."

I shut my mouth before I could say something I would regret.

"What's wrong? Why aren't you saying anything?" Eric snapped.

I said it wasn't fair that we saw his mother for everything, including our kids' events. But even that wouldn't be a problem if she weren't so judgmental about everything. He didn't have to face her criticism.

But Eric would never understand any of that. For him, his mother was always right and perfect. We continued arguing until my kids got fed up and came up with an idea.

"Why don't we have Grandma Vivian and Granny Paula over for Thanksgiving? That way, we'd spend more time with both our grannies!"

But we couldn't do that. That would be even worse than one of my failed recipes, so I gently let them down. "No, babies. You see, Granny Paula and Grandma Vivian are..."

"Nightmares!" Eric finished the sentence for me and explained to our children that their grandmothers were like school rivals; it was better to keep them away from each other.

I hoped Eric would reconsider and host only my mother. However, he was steadfast in his decision and invited his mother over before I could argue more.

But I couldn't let my mother spend the holidays alone. So, the next day, I called her, inviting her for Thanksgiving but not telling her about Vivian.

As I ended the call, feeling guilty for not being completely honest, Eric confronted me. "You sure you wanna do this, Andy? You know how they don't like being around each other," he said, pouting.

"Okay, do you want me to disinvite my mother, Eric? Do you want to leave my Mom alone when everybody enjoys the feast?" I snapped but took a deep breath. My hands automatically flew to my hair, fixing it. It was a nervous habit.

Eric's lips set in a tight line. He also knew we had to stop barking at each other. Ultimately, this argument was finished; both grandmas were coming.

With two days left for Thanksgiving, I heard loud honking outside our suburban home. My heart raced like horses galloping on an open field. My mother-in-law, Vivian, was here.

True to my fears, her arrival was marked by her immediate criticism of our kitchen. "Oh my goodness! What is this mess, darling?" she scowled. "Doesn't anyone clean around here?"

She suggested I needed to work harder at home. Eric didn't seem to understand why her comments made me anxious and angry. He was just happy that his mother was in our house.

Things only got worse from there in the coming days. Vivian took over preparing the turkey despite my insistence on following my Grandma's recipes. Her refusal to respect my methods led to the first disaster.

I left her to handle the turkey because it wasn't worthwhile to continue fighting, and as I finished my Grandma's famous pumpkin pie, I heard a loud crash. I knew what had happened immediately.

The tray with the turkey was on the floor, and of course, it was my fault. "Oh, the tray was greasy and small. You should've put the turkey in a bigger one!" Vivian complained.

Fixing my hair again, I reassured her, "That's okay, Vivian. It was just a trial run to ensure I got the flavors right before Thanksgiving."

Her criticisms didn't stop there. Vivian scolded my children for being too loud, comparing them to monkeys, which deeply upset me. I asked Eric to step in, but he sided with her.

Vivian continued her critiques in the kitchen, disparaging the cranberry sauce also from my Grandma's recipes. "It tastes so bland. Did you forget to add some lemon juice?" she commented, wrinkling her nose.

I defended the dish. "It tastes fine. I serve this to Eric all the time. He loves it."

"Oh, Eric loves this thing?" she pouted, rolling her eyes. "Well, that's because I raised him to be polite."

I shook my head and prepared to make another turkey when the doorbell rang. Unfortunately, Vivian beat me and answered the door first.

My mother stood outside, and both women stared at each other for a tense beat before Eric's mom reacted. "YOU?? What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice tinged with outrage.

I tried to defuse the situation by warmly welcoming my mom, but Vivian questioned her presence.

"What am I doing here? What in the world are YOU doing here?" my mom snapped.

I lied to smooth things over. "Well, Mom. I should've told you that Vivian would be coming, too! I'm sorry."

Vivian attempted to persuade Eric to send my mother to a hotel, but he surprisingly supported me, offering the guest room to my mother.

The next morning, as Mom and I enjoyed a light moment in the kitchen, Vivian appeared, making a snide remark about guests overstepping boundaries and announcing her plan to make a pumpkin cheesecake.

My mother said that we had a lot more to cook before we could think about Vivian's cheesecake. She was particularly excited about making a moussaka, a Greek dish I adored.

"Well, it doesn't sound like a traditional American dish to me!" Vivian hissed.

My mom started to argue about her bigotry, and Vivian didn't hold back, but she eventually stormed out angrily. Once she left, my mother and I resumed cooking until Vivian soon returned, demanding oven space for her cheesecake.

I conceded, "Alright! You can make your pumpkin cheesecake once the turkey roast and casserole are ready."

"Hell with it! I don't want to make any goddamn cheesecake!" Vivian lashed out and left the kitchen again, leaving us sighing and shaking our heads.

Hours later, we were done with preparations, and everything was cooking in the oven. Mom took that chance to wash up while I answered a phone call from a friend overseas. I never imagined leaving my kitchen would lead to tragedy.

The smoke alarm went off, hurting my ears, and Eric dashed to the kitchen, only to discover the oven had been set to 500 degrees. Everything inside was ruined.

I was bewildered. "I don't understand. I left it at 300 degrees. How could this happen?"

My mom came out, her mouth parting at the sight of all that wasted food. That's when my gaze shifted to Vivian, who stood silently in the kitchen, facing the other side, pretending nothing happened.

"You did this! Why?" I demanded. I felt my face turn red, and a headache was starting to develop. But I didn't care. She had done this on purpose. Eric tried to calm me, but I wanted answers.

Finally, she shrugged. "Oh, I just came for a glass of water when I noticed the Moussaka or whatever was undercooked. So I just raised the temperature a little."

"You raised the goddamn temperature to 500 degrees and almost set my kitchen on fire! Are you out of your mind?" I screamed. I had remained calm for days, but she had pushed too far.

I stared around my kitchen, trying to see what I could salvage, and my eyes landed on something I hadn't noticed before. My late Grandma's recipe book was torn. Destroyed. "What did you do?" I whispered, my voice ice-cold.

Vivian noticed the change. "I accidentally spilled water on the book. I had to tear off those pages," she said, shrugging again.

My kids had stepped out of their rooms, and although they were usually loud and excited for Thanksgiving, they knew something was going on. Their little mouths opened wide at the scene in the kitchen.

"There's no Thanksgiving this year. Thanks to your Grandma Vivian," I declared and retreated to my room, slumping in the bed as the tears rose.

Eric tried to play things off, and that was worse. He ordered dinner for the family while I wallowed in our bed. I felt utterly disregarded, not just for the ruined Thanksgiving but for Vivian's constant disrespect and boundary-crossing.

My mother left quietly the following day, hoping to avoid a confrontation with Vivian. When the monster-in-law was preparing to leave, Eric urged me to say goodbye, but I refused.

"Fine! Do as you wish. You know what? I'm tired of this war! I'm leaving in three weeks for Mom's place for the holidays and taking the kids. I need some peace," Eric yelled and hurried out of the house to take her to the airport.

Having a mama's boy for a husband was almost worse than the monster-in-law herself. The idea of Christmas at her house filled me with dread, but an idea popped into my head. I didn't have to be a pushover.

So, three weeks later, I joined them. Eric and the kids were delighted. And I was determined to have a great Christmas. But my plan didn't form fully until we arrived at Vivian's house.

Everything was beautifully decorated, like a Winter Wonderland, but the kitchen was full of baking utensils and ingredients. We learned that she had an opportunity to get a great client, and if successful, she could franchise her small bakery business in New York.

Therefore, she had arranged a cake-tasting event for Christmas Day, which was a welcomed change for me. Vivian was so occupied with her preparations that she didn't have time for her usual critiques and insults.

Christmas morning came, and we exchanged gifts, had breakfast, and relaxed while she stayed in the kitchen. That night, we had to doll up and look great for her VIP guests.

The party at Vivian's was in full swing, with her proudly showcasing her baking skills. They were all complimenting her cakes, eating heartily, while I watched. My kids wanted some, too, but I said Grandma's guests were more important.

Soon, the compliments shifted. "I'm starting to feel a bit strange. I think I need to use the bathroom...urgently. Where is it?" one of the clients, Mr. Rodriguez, said.

Another person asked for the bathroom a while later. After a few minutes, the party was pure chaos, with everyone wanting the bathroom. I had a chance to stop Eric from eating cake, but I didn't. Only my kids and I were safe.

I took them outside for fresh air while Vivian tried to salvage the situation. I disposed of the little laxative bottle I had stolen from her medicine cabinet yesterday and whispered an almost silent apology, which was more to myself. "I'm so sorry everyone. I just added a mild dose to the cake batter."

During our flight back home, Eric complained about his stomach still.

"I was about to have a bite, but after witnessing so much chaos in the party, I decided not to!" I quipped. No one had to know my secret. Seeing Vivian's deal go down the toilet – literally – was more than enough satisfaction.

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