I’ve always tried to be gracious with my mother-in-law, even when she made it nearly impossible. Every family dinner turned into a performance—her loudly criticizing my cooking, mocking my seasoning choices, and making snide remarks about how my husband must be “starving.” I bit my tongue for months, hoping kindness would win her over. It didn’t.
The final straw came at a birthday dinner I hosted. I spent hours preparing a beautiful meal, only to hear her announce to the table, “Well, let’s hope it’s edible this time.” The room went silent. I smiled, but inside, I was done playing nice.
So I served her steak—medium rare, just how she claimed to love it. But I made sure it was extra pink, practically mooing. When she cut into it, her face twisted in horror. “This is raw!” she shrieked. I calmly replied, “Oh, I thought you liked it that way. Isn’t that what you always say?” The table erupted in laughter. For once, she was speechless.
She didn’t mock my cooking after that. In fact, she started bringing store-bought dishes to family dinners. I didn’t need revenge—I just needed a moment of poetic justice. And that steak? It was the most satisfying dish I’ve ever served.
