I’ve never enjoyed tearing people down. I’m what my friends call a “girl’s girl”—the type who shows up with chocolate, wine, and a pep talk when someone’s having a bad day. I believe in kindness, in sisterhood. Life’s hard enough already.
Maybe that’s why my husband Arnold fell for me. We’re cut from the same cloth—kind, easygoing, and deeply committed to building something beautiful together. We’ve been married a year, and honestly, it’s been wonderful.
And then there was Janice.
My sister-in-law Janice was everything I’m not. Beautiful, yes, but with a sharpness that could cut glass. The first time she visited, she walked through our modest home like she was judging an open house tour for charity.
“Oh, this is so cozy,” she said, her voice syrupy. “I’d go insane in such a tiny space, but you’re managing.”
The digs didn’t stop there. She made snide remarks about my makeup, my clothes, even my choice of skincare products. According to Janice, drugstore brands were practically an act of self-sabotage. She’d smile sweetly after every insult, like she was giving me valuable advice.
I smiled. I always smiled. Killing her with kindness felt like the high road.
Until she moved in.
When a plumbing disaster struck her apartment, Janice and her husband needed a place to stay. Of course we said yes. That’s what family does. But within days, it became clear she was treating our house like her personal hotel. And worse—she started helping herself to my skincare.
At first, I thought I was imagining things. My expensive retinol serum, my eye cream—everything was disappearing far too quickly. Then one morning, I caught her red-handed in my bathroom, slathering on my $80 serum like it was lotion.
“Oh, I just borrowed a tiny bit. You don’t mind, right?” she said with that innocent look I’d come to despise.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I smiled.
But when she had the audacity to comment on my “brave drugstore skincare routine” during dinner—right after using half my luxury products—I knew I was done playing nice.
That night, I devised a plan.
I dug out an empty serum bottle, cleaned it, and refilled it with a prescription-strength keratosis treatment from my dermatologist—designed for thick, rough skin. Perfectly harmless, but incredibly irritating on the delicate skin of a face.
I placed it right where she’d find it.
The next morning, the scream came like clockwork.
Janice stormed into the kitchen, her face blotchy and inflamed. “Amelia, what’s happening to my face?!”
I blinked innocently. “Oh no! Did you use that little glass bottle? That’s a prescription treatment. Very strong stuff. You weren’t supposed to touch it.”
Her eyes widened as realization dawned. “You should’ve labeled it!”
I sipped my coffee. “You know… I always assumed people respected other people’s boundaries. Lesson learned?”
She never touched my things again. Or made another passive-aggressive comment.
When they finally moved back to their apartment, Arnold wrapped his arm around me. “You seem rather pleased.”
“I’m just glad family knows where the boundaries are now,” I smiled.
Sometimes karma needs a little gentle guidance. And sometimes, you simply have to let people taste the consequences of their own entitlement.
