My mother-in-law is obsessively organized, but when she started hauling her towels and sheets to wash at my house every week, something didn’t feel right.
I was annoyed, and I knew she was hiding something.
But what I discovered upon returning home early one day left me rattled.
I’m Claire, and at 29, I thought I had my mother-in-law Marlene all figured out. Four years of marriage to Evan taught me a lot, but nothing could have prepared me for what I discovered about his mother that day.
First, let me tell you about Marlene. She’s always been… well, intense, is putting it mildly.
She’s the type who shows up unannounced at your doorstep, armed with homemade lasagna and an endless supply of opinions about everything from how I fold my laundry to the way I organize my spice rack.
“Claire, dear,” she’d say, barging in with her signature apple pie, “I noticed your garden could use some attention.
And while we’re at it, have you considered rearranging your living room furniture? The feng shui is all wrong.”
I gripped my knife tighter, counting to ten in my head as I chopped the carrots. I’d grown used to her surprise visits and constant criticism, but that didn’t make them easier to swallow.
“Oh honey, is that what you’re making for dinner?” Marlene’s voice drifted from my kitchen, where she stood inspecting my half-chopped vegetables.
“You know Evan prefers his carrots julienned, not diced.”
“The diced carrots are for the soup stock, Marlene,” I explained, my voice tight with forced patience.
“Well, if you’re making stock, you really should roast the vegetables first. Here, let me show you—”
“I’ve got it under control,” I interrupted, stepping between her and my cutting board. “Don’t you have plans with Patrick today?”
She fidgeted with her pearl necklace.
“Oh, your father-in-law’s busy with his golf tournament. I thought I’d stop by and help you get organized. Your linen closet could use some attention.”
“My linen closet is fine,” I muttered, but she was already halfway down the hallway.
“Goodness, Claire!” she called out.
“When was the last time you properly folded these sheets? The corners aren’t even aligned!”
It’s exhausting, but Evan adores her, so I’ve learned to bite my tongue and smile. After all, she’s his mother, and I’d rather keep the peace than start a war I can’t win.
But things took a strange turn about two months ago.
That’s when Marlene started showing up weekly with garbage bags full of towels and bed linens.
She’d breeze past me like it was perfectly normal, saying, “Oh, I thought I’d use your washer and dryer today. Mine aren’t working quite right anymore.”
Two weeks later, it started getting worse. I was sipping my morning coffee when the doorbell rang.
There stood Marlene, clutching three large garbage bags loaded with dirty laundry.
“My washing machine’s acting up again,” she announced, pushing past me. “You wouldn’t mind if I used yours, would you, dear?”
I blinked at her retreating form. “Your washing machine?
The one you just bought six months ago? You said you were going to fix it, right?”
“Oh, you know how these modern appliances are,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “They make them so complicated these days.”
I watched her disappear into my laundry room, my coffee growing cold in my hands.
Something felt off, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.
That night, I brought it up to Evan. “Don’t you think it’s weird? Your mom showing up with laundry every week?”
He barely looked up from his laptop.
“Mom’s just being Mom. Remember when she reorganized our entire garage because she thought the holiday decorations were in the wrong boxes?”
“This feels different,” I insisted. “She seemed… nervous.
Like she’s hiding something.”
“Claire,” he sighed, finally meeting my eyes. “Can we have one evening without analyzing my mother’s every move? It’s just laundry.
She’s always welcome to use our washing machine. Maybe she’ll stop once she gets hers fixed.”
But it didn’t stop.
Every week, like clockwork, Marlene would appear with her bags of laundry. Sometimes, she’d wait until I got home, and other times, she’d use her emergency key — the one we’d given her for actual emergencies, not impromptu laundry sessions.
“Found more sheets that need washing?” I asked one Wednesday, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
“Just a few things,” she replied, hurrying past me.
Her hands were trembling as she loaded the washer.
I called Evan at work, my frustration boiling over. “Your mother’s here again. Third time this week.”
“I’m in the middle of a meeting, Claire.”
“She’s acting weird, Evan.
Really weird. I think something’s going on.”
“The only thing going on is you turning this into a bigger deal than it needs to be,” he snapped. “I need to go.”
I was deeply concerned by Marlene’s erratic behavior.
The truth finally surfaced on a fateful Friday that week.
I’d left work early, hoping to surprise Evan with a home-cooked meal. Instead, I was the one surprised when I saw Marlene’s car in our driveway.
The washing machine’s hum guided me to the laundry room as I quietly entered the house.
She was frantically transferring wet linens from washer to dryer, her perfectly manicured nails catching on the fabric in her haste.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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