Linda arrived with three large suitcases, a jungle of houseplants, and absolutely no sense of boundaries.
At first, I tried to stay optimistic. She filled our kitchen with teas she didn’t drink and made snide remarks about modern “microwave meals” versus “real food.” By week two, though, her presence felt permanent—and intrusive.
She’d leave dirty dishes everywhere, never rinse them, and our shared bathroom mirror was always streaked with her makeup.
She also took to tossing her laundry in with mine, assuming I’d gladly handle it.
I made an effort to be polite.
“Linda, could you please put your towel in the hamper?” I asked one day.
She smiled sweetly. “Oh, honey, I’m a guest! You don’t ask guests to do chores.”
A guest. In the home I helped pay for.
Jason was no help. “She’s my mom,” he said. “Let her be comfortable.”
Comfortable? She was living like a queen while I played maid.
