My MIL Started Treating Me like Her Personal Chauffeur – I Decided to Teach Her a Lesson

My mother-in-law treated me like her personal chauffeur after she threw a $20 payment at a gas station cashier and declared she had “helped me.” But something had to give when she pushed me too hard. To put it simply, karma tends to show up in the most unlikely ways.

Allow me to share with you the most memorable six weeks of my life. I’m Jessica, and I have three children who always seem to need three different things at the same time. Daniel, my spouse, is currently two months into a training deployment in the military.

Managing 12-hour nurse shifts at the hospital, school pickups, homework conflicts, and the ongoing craziness that comes with having three children—a four-year-old who believes she is a dragon, a six-year-old, and an eight-year-old—has left me flying alone.

The most difficult aspect of Daniel’s absence, though? Well, coping with Patricia, his mother.

According to her, saying “bless your heart” makes every insult seem courteous. The type of person that unexpectedly shows up and berates you for folding towels. The kind that asked me for a favour that looked easy at the time, roughly six weeks ago.

On the phone, she had murmured, “Jessica, dear,” with a false sweetness in her voice. “Could you possibly drive me to Linda’s lake cabin? It’s just two towns over. My car isn’t reliable for long trips.”

I ought to have refused. However, I kept hearing Daniel say, “Just try to get along with Mom while I’m gone.”

I therefore concurred.

“Of course, Patricia. When do you need to go?”

“Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”

The drive went smoothly at first. The most of it was Patricia telling me about Linda’s new deck and how certain people, in contrast to others, simply knew how to maintain a good property. Keeping my mouth shut, I continued to drive.

My petrol light flickered on around halfway. As I pulled into a gas station, I stated, “I need to stop for gas,”

“Well, hurry up. We’re already running behind.”

We had not been lagging behind. In actuality, we arrived fifteen minutes early. I didn’t argue, though.

I exited, began pumping petrol and was about to go inside to pay when Patricia came next to me out of nowhere. Pushing past me, she went to the desk, took out a $20 dollar from her purse, and threw it at the clerk.

She shouted, “There!” loud enough for the entire store to hear. “Don’t say I NEVER help you, Jessica!”

I was embarrassed, and the cashier was perplexed. Patricia was filled with pride and contentment.

I began to say, “Patricia, you didn’t have to…” but she interrupted.

“Nonsense! I know money’s tight for you young people. Consider it my contribution.”

What else could I do but thank her? It would have been terrible if she hadn’t made such a fuss. I assumed that everything was an act, just Patricia being Patricia.

However, I was unaware that I had just agreed to an unseen contract that was written in her perverted reasoning.

My phone rang at seven in the morning, three days later.

“Jessica, I need you to drive me to church. The early service. You can pick me up in 20 minutes.”

The kids were squabbling over the last waffle, I hadn’t even made coffee, and I was still in my pyjamas.

“Patricia, I wasn’t planning to go to church this morning. The kids…”

“Remember, Jessica. I gave you $20 for petrol. The least you can do is help me out when I need it.”

And there it was. a straightforward favour that had evolved into a demanding one. I simply drove her to church without arguing.

She called again two days later.

“Jessica, I have a doctor’s appointment at two. You’ll take me, won’t you? Gas isn’t free, you know! I already helped you once.”

I brought her to the physician.

The drugstore was the next week.

“Jessica, I need to pick up my prescriptions. You owe me. Don’t forget who helped you when you needed it.”

As if she had personally sponsored my entire life rather than simply once paying for half a tank of petrol, every request was accompanied by a reminder about that $20 cash.

My children became aware. “Mom, what if Grandma gives you another $20? Do we have to drive her everywhere forever?” my eight-year-old daughter Lia whispered to me one evening.

It wasn’t hilarious, but I did laugh. Because Patricia seemed to think just that. The calls increased in frequency. and more exacting.

“Jessica, there’s a sale at the grocery store. Pick me up in 10 minutes.”

“Jessica, I want to visit Margaret. She lives across town, but that shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

“Jessica, I’m bored. Let’s go for a drive.”

She would always bring up the money when I tried to say no. My perpetual slavery had seemingly been bought with that miraculous $20 bill.

She would complain, “After everything I’ve done for you?”

“Daniel would be so disappointed to hear you’re refusing to help his mother.”

I always got that final one. Because Daniel wasn’t here to tell his mother to stop bothering me or to defend me. He trusted me to take care of things at home, even though he was hundreds of miles away.

I continued to drive her. I remained silent and gave up my little leisure time to drive Patricia around while she griped about my driving, my car, my music, and sometimes my decisions in life.

The night that altered everything, however, arrived.

It was a Tuesday. I had just left the hospital after a gruelling 12-hour shift. Three crises had occurred, a coffee maker had broken at hour six, and two irate family members had yelled about wait times. My feet ached. My back ached. My brain ached. Everything hurt, God.

At 12:30 a.m., I arrived home, thanked and paid the babysitter, checked on the kids after she departed, and then went to bed while still in my scrubs.

My phone rang at 12:47 a.m. Since calls at that hour indicate emergencies, I snatched it in a panic. But I had been called by Patricia.

“Hello?”

Patricia said, sounding perfectly composed, “Jessica.” “I need you to drive me somewhere.”

“What? Patricia, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine, dear. I just need you to take me to the 24-hour convenience store.”

In an attempt to clear my head, I sat up. “It’s almost one in the morning. What’s the emergency?”

“I need Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. If I don’t have them, I’ll get a headache and I won’t be able to sleep. You don’t want me to suffer, do you?”

Confident that I had misheard, I gazed at my phone.

“You want me to drive you to the store… right now… for candy?”

“Not just candy, Jessica. It’s a medical necessity. And don’t forget, I gave you $20 for gas. The least you can do is help me when I need it.”

Something simply… ceased. Not broken. Not broke. Simply stopped.

I heard myself utter, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

I drove Patricia to the grocery after dropping the kids off at my neighbor’s house. After ten minutes of browsing, she finally chose her priceless treat, and I waited. After that, I took her home while listening to her gripe about the store’s recent changes to the layout.

I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling at 2:15 a.m., when I eventually returned home. I then began to make plans.

I gave my cousin Eddie a ring the following morning. On the outskirts of town, he works at a scrapyard.

“Eddie, I need a favour. Do you have any cars that run but look absolutely terrible? Something that looks kind of like mine but way worse?”

He chuckled. “Jess, that’s literally my entire inventory. What are you thinking?”

He laughed more when I clarified. “I’ve got the perfect thing. When do you need it?”

Just as planned, Patricia called that evening.

“Jessica, I need you to take me to the pharmacy. Eight o’clock. And before you complain, remember…”

“I remember, Patricia. Twenty dollars isn’t pocket change. I’ll be there at eight.”

I arrived at Patricia’s house in Eddie’s special loaner car at 7:55 p.m.

It was an automobile catastrophe masterpiece. A faded car that had survived what appeared to be three wars and would have been nice in 1987. The colour of the passenger door differed from the rest of the vehicle. Duct tape was used to secure the front bumper. It sounded like a dying dragon as the silencer dragged on the ground.

It backfired so loudly when I shut off the engine that Mr. Jones, who lived three homes away, came out to see what had erupted.

I exited and enthusiastically waved to Patricia, who had materialised in her doorway.

I said, “Your ride, ma’am!”

In two seconds, her face changed into around five different expressions. Perplexity. Horror. Disgust. Fury. Then we return to the terror.

She screamed, “What on earth is THAT?” “What happened to your car?”

I gave the rusty hood a loving touch and said, “Oh, this? It’s my friend’s car. Borrowed this gem because mine’s out of the $20 gas, you know!” “Looks like she had a little accident. Nothing major. But don’t worry… she still runs! Most of the time.”

Patricia approached the automobile and stared at it as if it were about to bite her.

There was a crack in the windscreen that extended from corner to corner. The original upholstery had given up and the passenger seat was wrapped in a beach towel. And it produced a noise like a cat being stepped on as I opened the door.

When Patricia said, “I’m NOT getting into that thing!” her voice rose by about three notes.

“Why not? It’s perfectly safe. Mostly. The brakes work great. Well, the front ones do.”

“People will SEE me!” she exclaimed as she nervously glanced about. Mrs. Chiu was undoubtedly observing from her window across the street.

“Well, you’re always saying I should be more budget-conscious,” I replied gently. “And since you were so generous with that $20, I figured I should drive something in that budget range. Now come on, hop in! We don’t want you to miss the pharmacy before it closes.”

Mr. Jones approached with a smile. “Nice upgrade, Jess! Real character!”

Patricia’s face took on a crimson hue. “This is humiliating!”

That was the moment the automobile decided to backfire once more. The light on Mrs. Chiu’s porch came on.

Patricia said, “I’ve changed my mind,” in a tense voice. “I don’t need to go to the pharmacy tonight.”

“Are you sure? What about your prescriptions?”

“They can wait.”

“But I’m already here. And you gave me that $20, remember? This car gets terrible mileage, so I figured I should make the trip count…”

She turned and strode back towards her home, attempting to keep her composure as she sped away from the car accident parked in her driveway. “I SAID I’ve changed my mind!” she exclaimed.

I called after her and said, “Okay! Just let me know when you need another ride!” “I owe you my life for that $20!”

I could hear the sound of her door slamming from outside. After getting back into Eddie’s car, which sounded like a tiny explosion, I smiled as I drove home.

Since then, Patricia has never asked me for a ride. Not one.

Her voice always has this edge to it, as if she’s making sure I know she doesn’t need me anymore, but she still phones me now and again to tell me stuff like “I took a taxi to church today” or “Margaret drove me to my doctor’s appointment.”

The following day, I heard Daniel trying not to chuckle when he called me. “Mom called me. Said you’ve been driving around in some kind of death trap.”

“I borrowed it from Eddie. Very temporarily.”

When I told Daniel everything, he erupted in laughing. “She said it backfired and woke up half the neighbourhood.” “Jess, you broke her code of manipulation. Best 20 bucks she ever wasted.”

My children find the entire situation amusing. We should preserve Eddie’s automobile, my six-year-old said, “because Grandma’s face would’ve been so funny.”

Am I guilty? Not even by a small amount.

The problem with folks like Patricia is that they will take whatever you give them and then demand more. Generosity wasn’t the point of that $20 bill.

On control, it was a down payment. She was reminding me that I should be thankful, responsible, and indebted to her forever each time she shoved it in my face.

However, responsibilities ought to reciprocate. And when you create a boundary, no one, not even your husband’s mother, gets to treat you like hired help and then act surprised.

The best barrier I’ve ever established was that rusted automobile. utterly effective, nonverbal, and impossible to argue with.

Patricia will undoubtedly have a lengthy speech ready about my rudeness when Daniel gets home. And what do you know? I’m ready for it.

Because I’m tired of reducing myself to fit in with other people. I’m tired of being duped by phoney charity. And I’m tired of being encouraged to be thankful and taking crumbs.

With that $20, Patricia gave me a great lesson. She made me realise how much she valued my dignity. I immediately returned the favour by teaching her that I am worth much more than $20 and a guilt trip.

I would like to know how many times you have allowed someone to hold a tiny favour over your head. How many times have you held back from speaking because you thought it would “cause drama”? When does it become clear to you that creating a little drama is preferable to losing yourself?

Because the high road is overrated at times. You must adopt a more modest approach. The one with the dragging silencer, the backfiring engine and the poor suspension. The road that eventually causes people to leave you alone because it makes them uncomfortable.

Patricia is still thinking about her $20 in leverage. She’ll most likely hold onto it forever, telling everyone who would listen how unappreciative I am.

But I have something better. My leisure, my tranquilly, and my dignity have all returned. And truthfully? That is far more valuable than $20.