Eggs kept disappearing from my fridge, always after my MIL, Andrea, visited. I thought she might be struggling and had taken a few eggs for herself, but I had to be certain. I set up a hidden camera, but what I caught my MIL doing with those stolen eggs shocked me to the core.
I never thought I’d become an amateur detective over something as simple as eggs. But when you’re paying around $6 a dozen, you start to notice things.
My husband, James, and I barely touched them anymore. We only bought them for the kids’ breakfast, and even then, we treated those things like they were made of gold.
Yet somehow, they started disappearing at a frightening rate.
“James, I swear we had more eggs yesterday,” I said one morning, staring into the fridge.
The carton felt wrong in my hands. Too light.
“Come on, Rebecca,” he replied, not looking up from his phone. “Maybe the kids made themselves eggs when they got home from school.”
“No, they had grilled cheese.” I pulled out the carton and set it on the counter. “I’ve been counting them. We had eight yesterday, and now there are four.”
“You’re counting eggs now?” He glanced up, eyebrows raised. “That’s a new level of grocery anxiety, even for you.”
“When they cost this much? You bet I am.” I closed the fridge with more force than necessary, rattling the condiments inside. “And I’m telling you, something’s not right. This isn’t the first time.”
James sighed and put down his phone. “Babe, it’s just eggs. Maybe we’re using more than we realize.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’ve been keeping track for weeks now.” I started pacing the kitchen, my slippers scuffing against the tile. “I’m going to set up a hidden camera to catch the thief.”
James laughed. “You’re putting our fridge under surveillance?”
“Exactly,” I replied.
See, there was one crucial piece of information I didn’t want to share with James yet. When I first started counting our eggs, I quickly uncovered a disturbing pattern: every time my MIL, Andrea, came to visit, our eggs went missing.
At first, I thought maybe she was struggling financially. Times were tough for everyone, and eggs were practically a luxury item at this point, but something about it didn’t sit right with me.
Although James and I had discussed his mom’s issues with boundaries multiple times, I didn’t want to accuse her of theft without proof.
“Okay then, Sherlock,” James said, rising from his chair. “Do what you need to do to uncover the mystery of the missing eggs.”
I ordered the tiny camera that same day, selecting overnight shipping. I set it up on a kitchen shelf facing the fridge.
The footage revealed more than I bargained for. I sat at my kitchen table, jaw dropped, as I watched Andrea on my phone screen.
There she was, bold as brass, carefully transferring eggs from my carton into her tote bag. She wrapped each one in a little cloth, tucking them away like they were precious gems.
But it was what she did next that really got me.
Instead of heading home with her contraband eggs, she walked straight out our back door and across the yard. Right to Mrs. Davis’s house. Our neighbor.
“No way,” I muttered, leaning closer to the screen.
It was pure luck that our fridge was near the back door. The little camera just picked up the exchange that happened next.
I watched in disbelief as Andrea handed over the eggs to Mrs. Davis, who gave her something in return. Money. My mother-in-law was running an egg racket out of my refrigerator.
“The absolute nerve,” I whispered to myself. I rewound the footage three times just to be sure I wasn’t seeing things. “She’s been stealing my eggs to sell them to the neighbors!”
That evening, I decided to do some reconnaissance. I caught Mrs. Davis watering her roses and wandered over, trying to look casual.
“Hey there! Mrs. Davis,” I called out, leaning against her fence. “I was wondering… where have you been getting your eggs lately?”
Mrs. Davis’s face lit up like I’d just offered her free tickets to the opera. “Oh! I’ve been buying eggs from your sweet MIL! She has backyard chickens and sells them cheap — only $4 a dozen! But I bet you already knew that.”
I felt my smile freeze on my face.
Backyard chickens? Andrea lived in a condo. On the third floor. The closest she could get to having backyard chickens was installing a coop on her balcony.
“I guess you didn’t know I’m already buying from her and wanted to offer me cheap eggs. That’s so thoughtful of you!” Mrs. Davis winked at me then. “Who would’ve thought we’d end up discussing cheap eggs like some kind of shady deal?”
She laughed, then excused herself to continue watering while I stood there, seething.
That night, I hatched a plan to teach Andrea a lesson.
It took over an hour to carefully hollow out an entire carton of eggs, but watching that golden yolk drain away was oddly satisfying.
I then mixed up a special concoction of mustard and hot sauce, carefully refilling each shell before placing them back in the carton.
“What are you doing?” James asked, wandering into the kitchen around midnight. “Is that… mustard?”
“Justice,” I replied, not looking up from my work. “Sweet, yellow justice.”
“Should I even ask?”
“Probably not. But you might want to buy some popcorn for the show that’s coming.”
The trap was set. That weekend, Andrea came over for her usual visit with the grandkids.
I watched her like a hawk, pretending to be absorbed in my phone while she did her usual routine. She hugged the children, commented on how much they’d grown, and subtly positioned herself near the kitchen.
“Oh, let me get some water,” she said casually, disappearing into the kitchen while I pretended to help Tommy with his homework.
I immediately pulled out my phone and watched on the camera as she slipped the eggs into her bag.
She hurriedly crossed the yard and handed the eggs over to Mrs. Davis. Within minutes, she was back inside, fawning over the kids like nothing had happened.
That evening, I invited Andrea to have a cup of tea with me on the back porch before she returned home. From here, we had a clear view of Mrs. Davis’s kitchen.
She didn’t have curtains in her kitchen windows, and I often sat here in the evenings to watch her bake. Tonight, however, I expected there might be a more exciting show to witness.
Mrs. Davis walked back and forth a few times carrying bowls, flour, and other items. Then, she lifted an egg. She cracked it open and screamed as yellow mustard and hot sauce mixture burst from the egg.
“What on earth?” Andrea sat up straight, her teacup clattering against the saucer.
I shrugged and pretended to look around with concern.
Moments later, the pounding on our front door made her jump again.
I took my time walking over, fighting to keep the grin off my face. Mrs. Davis stood there, hands covered in mustard, face red with fury, looking like she’d just discovered her winning lottery ticket was fake.
“Those eggs!” she sputtered as I invited her inside. “They were filled with… with…”
“Eggs?” I asked innocently. “Oh, you mean the ones you bought from Andrea? Is something wrong with them?”
Andrea stepped into the living room then. Mrs. Davis immediately stomped toward her.
“Andrea? What’s going on? The eggs you sold me… they’re full of mustard and hot sauce!”
“What? That can’t be. Rebecca,” Andrea hissed. “What did you do?”
I crossed my arms. “What did I do? I think the better question is, what were you doing stealing my groceries and selling them to my neighbor?”
Mrs. Davis’s mouth fell open. “Wait… you stole these eggs from Rebecca?”
The silence was deafening. Andrea’s face turned a shade of red I’d never seen before, clashing spectacularly with her floral blouse. She opened and closed her mouth several times, but no words came out.
“I can’t believe this,” Mrs. Davis muttered. She jabbed her finger at Andrea, dripping mustard onto my floor. “I trusted you! All that talk about your backyard chickens… I’ve been telling everyone at my bridge club about your amazing eggs!”
She stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows. Andrea didn’t stick around much longer. She grabbed her purse and practically ran out the door, leaving her tea half-finished on the table.
I waited until she was gone before I started laughing. When James got home and I told him the whole story, he laughed even harder than I did.
“That’s what you were doing with the mustard and hot sauce?” he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “That’s brilliant! But also slightly terrifying. Remind me never to steal your groceries.”
These days, our eggs stay exactly where they belong — in our fridge.
Andrea never mentioned the incident again, and Mrs. Davis found a new egg supplier. But sometimes, when I’m putting groceries away, I catch myself smiling. Because nothing tastes sweeter than the satisfaction of catching an egg thief red-handed.
