My husband and I live in one of those postcard-perfect coastal towns where the sunsets are magical and the real estate is absurdly expensive. We’re lucky to have a modest but cozy home with a view, which basically means we’ve become the default Airbnb for every friend, cousin, and distant high school acquaintance who wants a “cheap beach getaway.”
We don’t usually mind. Hosting is our thing. We love good conversation, beach bonfires, and making memories with loved ones.
So when my brother-in-law, Tyler, and his brand-new wife Lexie asked if they could honeymoon at our place for a week—“to save money for the real trip next year”—we said yes.
No hesitation.
Huge, enormous, colossal mistake.
They showed up unannounced two hours early while I was still vacuuming and tossing snack packs on a tray for our kids’ playdate.
I barely had time to say, “Hey! Welcome!” before Tyler brushed past me, suitcase in one hand and Lexie on his arm, making a beeline for our master bedroom.
Not the guest room. Not even the kids’ room. Our bedroom.
I followed them, confused. “Hey, you’re actually all set up in the guest room down the hall—fresh sheets, towels, everything.”
Tyler didn’t even glance at me. “Yeah, no. We need the big room. It’s our honeymoon.”
Lexie flopped dramatically onto my pillow. “The guest room doesn’t even have a view. You guys’ll be fine on the pullout in the living room.”
I was stunned. My husband, bless his passive heart, just blinked like he’d been whacked by a beach umbrella.
But it didn’t stop there.
Later that evening, while prepping dinner for our kids—chicken tenders, sliced veggies, and cute little frosted cupcakes—I walked into the kitchen to find Lexie licking icing off her fingers and Tyler stuffing a third tendie into his mouth.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Lexie said, grabbing the last cupcake. “We were starving.”
“These cupcakes are kinda dry, though,” Tyler added. “You should really hire a chef. This homemade stuff’s not it.”
That was the moment I grabbed my keys, took a deep breath, and told my husband through clenched teeth, “We’re going to the store. I’ll cook again.”
We left them there. Alone. With their entitlement and the crusts of my children’s dinner.
But when we returned—less than an hour later—we pulled into the driveway to see something I will never forget.
Tyler and Lexie, standing on the porch with their suitcases, both red-faced and furious.
And next to them? My mother-in-law.
Apparently, while we were gone, she stopped by for a “surprise visit” and let herself in with the spare key. And when she saw her darling youngest son lounging in our bed like a Roman emperor while her daughter-in-law bossed our kids around and insulted our food, she lost it.
According to our neighbor, who heard the whole thing, she went full force:
“You’re not on a honeymoon. You’re freeloading! These two opened their home to you, and you repay them by stealing their bedroom and eating the kids’ dinner? OUT. NOW.”
So they were out. Bags packed. Faces burning.
We let them go without a word. No yelling. No lectures.
Just a quiet, satisfied silence as we walked back into our home—our peaceful, cupcake-filled home.
They haven’t visited since. And I bake dry cupcakes on purpose now. Just in case.