“I didn’t come here to ask permission every time I touch something, Chloe. Justin is my son. I know exactly how he likes to live.”

My mother-in-law, Virginia, said that only four days after moving into our house.

But what bothered me most was not her tone.

It was my husband.

Justin sat at the kitchen table staring into his coffee as though keeping his eyes down would somehow make the argument disappear.

The whole situation had actually started innocently.

Virginia and my father-in-law, Walter, lived several hours away in Bakersfield.

Virginia had been waiting months for a series of medical appointments in Sacramento.

When the appointments were finally scheduled across several weeks, Justin suggested that his parents stay with us.

“We have an empty guest room,” he said. “Why should they spend thousands on hotels?”

I agreed immediately.

It seemed completely reasonable.

I wanted them to feel welcome.