When my future MIL invited me over for tea, I thought she wanted to bond before the wedding. Instead, she handed me a list of 25 luxury gifts to buy for her; one for each year she “invested” in raising Jake. Now I’m questioning what kind of family I’m really marrying into… and how far she’ll go.
You know that feeling when someone’s being nice to you, but every instinct in your body is screaming “danger”?
That’s exactly how I felt when Jake’s mom called me three weeks before our wedding.
Jake and I had been together for almost three years and engaged for six months. His family seemed normal and nice enough, even though his mom, Linda, still called him her baby boy and cut his steak for him at barbeques.
I chalked it up to her being overprotective and just decided to do my best to get along with her.
“Sweetheart,” Linda cooed into the phone, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness, “I was hoping we could have a little woman-to-woman chat before the big day. Why don’t you come over for tea tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure,” I replied. I had a bad feeling about it, but I pushed it aside. This could be the perfect opportunity for Linda and me to get to know each other better.
So, there I was the next day, standing on her pristine doorstep with a bottle of wine, trying to psych myself up for an afternoon of tea and small talk with my future MIL.
Linda answered, wearing her perfectly pressed cardigan and that smile. You know the one. The kind that looks warm from a distance but gets colder the closer you get.
“Come in, dear,” she said, ushering me into her living room, where everything was beige and uncomfortable. “I’ve made chamomile.”
She poured the tea into delicate china cups that probably cost more than my car payment. I waited for her to start talking about wedding plans or maybe share some embarrassing Jake stories.
Instead, she reached into a drawer and slid a folded piece of paper toward me across the coffee table.
“What’s this?” I asked, picking it up.
“Oh, just a little something I put together for you,” Linda said, settling back into her chair like she’d just handed me a family recipe.
I unfolded the paper and nearly choked on my tea.
The page Linda had given me contained a list.
Linda’s 25 “Must-Have” Gifts Before the Wedding:
1. Louis Vuitton Neverfull MM handbag.
2. Cartier Love bracelet.
3. Tiffany diamond pendant.
The list went on and on: Gucci silk scarf, Hermès perfume, spa weekends, trips to Napa Valley, Chanel No. 5, Apple Watch, custom cashmere, first-class tickets to Hawaii. Twenty-five items that probably cost more than Jake and I make in a year combined.
“Linda,” I said, letting out a little chuckle while my brain struggled to process what I was reading, “what exactly is this?”
She took a delicate sip of her tea and smiled that practiced smile again. “That’s your repayment list, sweetheart. One gift for every year I invested in raising Jake.”
I stared at her. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re getting a finished product, thanks largely to the work I put in to raise Jake to become the man he is today,” she said.
“You can’t put a price on motherhood,” she continued, as if she were explaining something obvious to a particularly slow child. “But in this case, I have, and I think you’ll find it’s quite reasonable.”
Reasonable? I looked back at the list. Diamond stud earrings, designer leather wallet, vintage Dom Pérignon, and at the very bottom, a “thank you” video professionally filmed and edited.
This woman had lost her mind!
“Linda,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “marriage isn’t an exchange of goods. Jake and I are building a life together. I don’t owe you payment for raising your own son, and nobody told me I’d be expected to pay a dowry either.”
Her smile never wavered. “If you can’t honor the years I spent raising him, maybe you don’t value family the way we do. If you’re serious about joining our family, a little material appreciation will help prove it.”
I left her house that day with the list crumpled in my purse and a headache building behind my eyes.
When I got home, Jake was in the kitchen making dinner.
“How was tea with Mom?” he asked cheerfully.
“Where do I even start?” I said, pulling out the paper and smoothing it on the counter. “She gave me a list of gifts I should give her to prove my commitment to your family.”
Jake laughed when he saw it. “Very funny. What did she really want to talk about?”
“Jake,” I said quietly, “I’m not kidding.”
His smile faded as he read the list again, more carefully this time. His face went through about six different expressions before settling on something between horror and rage.
“She can’t be serious.”
“Oh, she’s dead serious.”
He called her immediately, right there in the kitchen while I listened.
I could hear Linda’s voice on the other end, defending herself with that same calm tone she’d used with me.
“If she can’t honor the years I spent raising you, maybe she doesn’t value family,” she repeated.
Jake hung up looking like he’d been punched in the stomach. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea she would…”
“It’s not your fault,” I told him, even though part of me was wondering what other surprises his family had in store.
I thought that was the end of it. I really did. How naïve of me.
Two weeks later, we were at Jake’s cousin’s engagement party. Nice restaurant, lots of family, champagne toasts all around. Everything was going perfectly until Linda stood up during the dessert course.
“I’d like to make a toast,” she announced, raising her glass.
Everyone quieted down, expecting something sweet about love and family.
Instead, Linda looked directly at me and said, “When you marry into a family, you don’t just marry the person. You honor the people who raised them. Some of us are still waiting on our tokens of appreciation.”
The silence that followed was deafening. My face burned like someone had held a blowtorch to it.
Jake immediately stood up. “Mom, stop this. Now.”
But the damage was done. Twenty-odd pairs of eyes were staring at me, and I could practically hear the whispers starting. That’s when I realized we’d crossed from ridiculous into toxic territory, and something had to change. Publicly.
Linda’s birthday was coming up in a week, and she’d been dropping not-so-subtle hints about which gift from the list I’d be choosing first. The Cartier bracelet seemed to be her top choice, based on how often she mentioned it.
But I had a different kind of surprise planned. She wanted 25 gifts? Fine. I’d give her 25 gifts.
I spent an entire Saturday afternoon at the dollar store, carefully curating my collection. I picked out a plastic tiara with fake gems and also grabbed a cat calendar, because she’d mentioned multiple times how much she hated cats.
Some of the other items I chose to show Linda my appreciation included an off-brand perfume called “Evening Mist” that smelled like bathroom air freshener and a “World’s Best Mom” mug with a chip in the handle.
But my masterpiece was the final gift: a roll of toilet paper. For the cherry on top, I personalized it by writing “For all the crap you’ve put me through” on the roll in gold Sharpie.
I wrapped each item perfectly. I selected beautiful gift-wrapping paper, silk ribbons, tissue paper for the inside, the works. Presentation was everything.
The birthday dinner was at Linda’s favorite restaurant, the kind of place where they fold your napkin for you when you get up to use the bathroom.
The whole extended family was there, including some relatives I’d never met. Perfect.
During dessert, I excused myself. A few minutes later, I returned to the table wheeling a large decorative box I’d hidden in my car.
“Linda,” I said, beaming at her like she’d just won the lottery, “I wanted to give you something special. Here are 25 gifts to honor the years you spent raising Jake.”
Her eyes lit up. This was it. This was her moment.
She opened the first package.
It contained a packet of gummy worms. Her smile wavered slightly, but she held it together.
In the second package she opened, she found a mini stapler. A few people started glancing at each other.
The third package contained a bar of motel soap still in its paper wrapper. Someone coughed to cover a laugh.
By the time she opened the tenth gift, a rubber duck wearing sunglasses, people weren’t even trying to hide their amusement. Jake’s aunt was biting her lip so hard I thought she might draw blood.
Linda’s smile was shrinking with each package, but she kept going. What choice did she have? Twenty-odd people watched her with rapt attention as she unwrapped a fake plant, a pack of birthday candles, and a stress ball shaped like a hamburger.
The 24th gift was a bookmark that said, “Reading is Fun-damental” with a cartoon owl on it.
And then came gift number 25.
Linda unwrapped the toilet paper, read the gold lettering, and the entire table erupted.
Jake actually started clapping. His dad had to cover his mouth with his napkin, and Jake’s older sister was crying with laughter.
Linda slammed the lid back on the box and snarled, “You’re mocking me.”
I looked her straight in the eye and said, “No, Linda. I’m honoring you, just like you insisted. You never specified the value of the gifts you require.”
That was it. She stood up so fast her chair fell backward, grabbed her purse, and stormed out of the restaurant, leaving her untouched birthday cake behind.
The dinner continued without her, and it was honestly the most fun I’d had with Jake’s family since we’d started dating.
People kept coming up to whisper things like, “Thank you. About time someone did that.”
Even Linda’s sister winked at me and said, “She’s had that coming for years.”
Jake made it crystal clear to his mother the next day: respect me as his future wife, or don’t be part of the wedding at all. Her silence since then has been absolutely peaceful.
So yes, I technically gave her 25 gifts. But I also gave her a 26th: silence. Because even though I gave her a slew of bad gifts, I never once let her have a piece of my mind!
Though if we’re counting the applause from that birthday dinner, I’d say the real gift was watching an entire family finally feel free to laugh at the empress with no clothes.
