I pulled into my driveway at 2:00 PM on a Tuesday, three days earlier than planned. The business trip to Chicago had wrapped up early, and all I wanted was a long soak in my tub and the quiet sanctuary of the home I had worked so hard to maintain since my husband, David, passed away two years ago.
But as I stepped through the front door, the smell hit me first: stale grease, cheap cigarettes, and something rotting.
My pristine hardwood floors were covered in muddy footprints. The velvet sofa—the one David and I picked out for our anniversary—had a massive, dark wine stain spreading across the cushion like a bruise. In the kitchen, the granite countertops were buried under a mountain of crusty dishes and takeout boxes. My heart hammered against my ribs. Had I been robbed? No, robbers don’t leave half-eaten pizza on the counter.
Then, I heard the splashing.
I walked out to the patio. My mother-in-law, Martha, was floating in my pool on a giant inflatable flamingo, a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Around her, the pool deck was strewn with wet towels and empty bottles. The pool pump was making a horrifying, grinding screech—the sound of a motor dying a slow, expensive death.
“Martha?” I choked out.
She jumped so hard she nearly tipped the flamingo. “Oh! Elena! You’re… you’re early.”
“Early? Martha, you don’t live here! How did you even get in?”
She paddled to the edge, completely unbothered. “I kept the spare key David gave me years ago. Honestly, Elena, you should be thanking me. A house shouldn’t sit empty for a month; it’s a magnet for burglars. I’ve been house-sitting as a favor to you.”
“A favor?” I gestured wildly at the trashed living room and the screeching pump. “You’ve ruined my furniture! The pool pump is burning out because you didn’t clear the filters! My oven has a literal fire hazard of grease in it!”
Martha climbed out of the pool, wrapping herself in one of my luxury guest towels. “Don’t be dramatic. A little cleaning will fix that. And as for the pump, it’s old anyway. I’m family, Elena. You can’t expect me to pay for ‘wear and tear’ while I’m doing you a kindness.”
She looked me dead in the eye, her voice turning cold. “Besides, David would have wanted his mother to be comfortable. This house was half his, after all.”
That was the low blow. She knew David had left everything to me specifically because he knew Martha was a spendthrift who had burned through her own inheritance years ago. She was squatting in my grief, and she didn’t feel a shred of guilt.
We stood there on the patio, the tension thick enough to cut. I was about to tell her to pack her bags and get out before I called the police, when Martha’s phone—sitting on the patio table—started vibrating violently.
She looked at the screen, and her face went from smug to ghostly pale. The caller ID read: “Officer Miller – Precinct 4.”
She hesitated, but I snatched the phone and hit speaker. “Hello?”
“Is this Martha Higgins?” a stern voice asked.
“This is her daughter-in-law, Elena. She’s right here. Is there a problem?”
“Ma’am, we’re calling because Mrs. Higgins’ primary residence—the condo on Elm Street—was just inspected following a neighbor’s report of a water leak. It appears the unit was left unattended with a faucet running for weeks. The floor has collapsed into the unit below, which happens to be owned by a very prominent local attorney.”
Martha gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
The officer continued, “Since she wasn’t answering her home phone, we tracked her via her emergency contact list. The damages are estimated in the six-figure range, and because the leak was deemed ‘negligent abandonment’ by the building manager, her insurance is refusing to cover the liability for the neighbor’s property. We need her to come down and sign the citations immediately.”
Martha slumped into a patio chair, the inflatable flamingo drifting sadly behind her. She had spent a month playing “rich homeowner” at my expense, and in her laziness, she had literally let her own life wash away.
“Elena,” she whispered, looking at me with wide, watery eyes. “You… you have to help me. I have no money for a lawyer. I’ll have to sell the condo just to pay the neighbor. I’ll have nowhere to go.”
I looked at my stained sofa, my broken pump, and the woman who thought she could treat my home like a trash can.
“You’re right, Martha,” I said, picking up her suitcase from the hallway and tossing it onto the wet patio tiles. “A house shouldn’t sit empty. But lucky for me, I’m home now. And as for you? I hear the lawyer living below you is very good at what he does. You should probably go meet him.”
I didn’t call the police to report her break-in. I didn’t have to. The universe had already served a much larger bill. As she lugged her damp suitcase to her car, the pool pump gave one final, pathetic hiss and died.
I smiled. It was going to be expensive to fix, but watching Martha drive away toward a mountain of lawsuits?
That was worth every penny.
