Marissa maintained her composure and left after her mother-in-law turned a kind offer into a public insult, but she had a plan. The resulting quiet lesson in grace, limits, and indirect retaliation demonstrated that sometimes letting someone destroy himself is the best way to make a point.
Great interior design, in my opinion, speaks louder than any introduction.
Therefore, I immediately answered “yes” when my mother-in-law, Lucinda, who proudly referred to herself as the “queen of social gatherings,” requested if she could throw her 60th birthday party at my “gorgeous apartment.”
“Obviously,” I grinned. “I would be delighted to do so.”
My name is Marissa, and I’m obsessed with home design. My apartment is more than just a place I live; it’s a deliberate design, with every element picked with care. Nothing about the kitchen’s golden under-cabinet lighting, the Italian crystal glassware, or the velvet drapes that perfectly capture the afternoon light is by chance.
Most of the time, people enter and pause in the middle of a statement, looking around the room. Lucinda, too. And believe me when I say that Lucinda is not a quiet or easily impressed woman.
“Elegant and unforgettable” is what she was going for. My house was suitable.
And I was prepared to provide her with something spectacular.
I organized the night as if it were a Vogue Living feature. The entryway was framed by cascading arches of peonies and freesia. The last of the golden-hour light fell on the mauve table runners. A tiny blessing on every dish was a sprig of rosemary nestled neatly into linen napkins, hand-lettered name cards, and gold-rimmed china at each place setting.
My playlist consisted of a gentle instrumental for the first hour, followed by a seamless transition into Lucinda’s “favorites,” which included Earth, Wind & Fire, Diana Ross, and a couple disco classics whose titles she was never able to pronounce.
In her honor, I even made two signature cocktails.
The “Pearl Drop” is a sparkling pear martini that resembled Cinderella’s hand, while the “Lucie Luxe” is a blackberry elderflower gin fizz that has the perfect bite.
The invitations? I created and printed it on cardstock with a cream feel then sealed it with blush wax. I even put together a photo section with candles, glass-framed pressed flowers, Polaroids, and a sign with the words “Golden at 60” written in flowing handwriting.
The city’s finest bakery created the four-tiered masterpiece, which was decorated with watercolor pastels, embellished with candied violets, and capped with her name in edible gold. It was all based on a picture Lucinda had shown me half a year before.
I did go overboard, yes. But for years, Lucinda had worked two jobs and raised my husband, Colin, alone. Additionally, I felt it was my duty to make the evening ideal for her because Colin was unable to attend due to his work trip.
Everything was ready by 5:30 p.m. The aroma of citrus and peony filled the air, the food was warming in my smart oven, and the cocktails were cooling in cut-crystal decanters.
Shortly later, Lucinda showed in wearing a wrap dress made of navy satin, pearls arranged like armor around her neck, and large sunglasses that she kept on indoors.
She entered with her pearl clutch swinging softly from her wrist, as if she were making a spectacular entry at a banquet. She looked around the room, then at me, and then she gave me a tight, cheesy smile.
She brushed the air close to my cheek and whispered, “Oh, darling, this is divine.” “I appreciate you setting it up.”
She then looked at her clutch before turning back to face me.
“Go get dressed now, Marissa.” And I mean to say, go. Have fun this evening. I can’t really have you around because this is a family-only event.
I blinked. “I apologize… What?
She gently waved her hand, saying, “Don’t make this awkward.” Tonight, we only want our immediate family. You weren’t actually on the list, no disrespect intended.
The list? Even though it was for a party at my house, I wasn’t on the list.
I gazed at the table settings, the floral arrangements, and the chocolates wrapped in gold.
“And who is in charge of the kitchen?” I inquired.
Lucinda laughed sharply. “Do you suppose I’m defenseless? I’ll get by.
As if she had just won a contest, she pivoted on her heel and clicked over my wooden floor.
I refrained from arguing. I didn’t bang doors or cry. I simply picked up my stuff and gave my best friend Tessa a call.
“Come on over here,” she said right away. “Bring your rage and your phone charger.”
I was in a spa suite at a five-star hotel in the heart of the city an hour later. Champagne in hand, eucalyptus candles blazing, hair up, robe on.
As she handed me my drink, Tessa remarked, “You seem at ease.”
I told her, “I feel dangerously calm.” “Like a hurricane’s eye.”
We exchanged toasts. We placed an order for truffle fries and lobster sliders. Afterward, I took a photo of my unopened martini, which was pale pink and flawlessly frosted, and shared it on social media with the following caption:
after the hostess is expelled from her own house.
I dozed off for a while. My phone was vibrating across the table when I woke up, with thirteen voicemails, forty-seven missed calls, and a number of irate texts in all caps.
The final one said: MARISSA, WHAT KIND OF SICK GAME IS THIS?
Bewildered, I looked through the messages. As it happens, Lucinda was unable to decipher my smart oven. The pantry code was unknown to her. She was unaware that the cake was kept in the secret refrigerator drawer.
She offered half-raw roast lamb, microwaved quiches, and room-temperature charcuterie. The salad never showed up. She poured instant coffee into the water tank of my espresso machine, breaking it. My cream luxury rug was splattered with crimson wine. Additionally, a visitor was once locked in the rear restroom.
The guests were hungry, chilly, and departing early by the conclusion of the night. Even this was placed online by someone:
A dinner party turned into a nightmare in the kitchen. There was no food, no host, and the birthday girl had no idea where she was going.
At that point, Lucinda accused me of undermining her in a loud voicemail.
I wrote back, “You said you could manage.” “I didn’t mean to disparage your abilities. As you said, I’m having a great evening.
After turning off my phone, I suggested that Tessa and I have our nails done.
The following morning, there were no pictures or “what a night!” remarks on the family group chat.
Lucinda texted on Monday: Let’s go to lunch and have a grown-up conversation.
Don’t apologize. No responsibility. I didn’t respond.
Colin froze as soon as he entered the apartment after his excursion. His gaze fell upon the soiled rug, the espresso machine that was blinking, and the chaos that was all around.
He finally remarked, “I didn’t know she’d do that.” “I assumed she simply meant that she didn’t want friends or coworkers, never you.”
“You ought to have inquired,” I muttered. Colin, she evicted me from our own house. You also failed to stop her.
“I’m to blame,” he said.
“No,” I clarified. That’s the version of you that stays out of trouble at all costs. However, the version you select going forward will determine our marriage.
This time, he actually listened to me and was silent.
I told him, “I’m done acting like this is normal, but I’m not asking you to take sides.” It isn’t. It is deceptive. I’m responsible if I continue to permit it.
I made the decision that going forward, my house would continue to be a carefully planned area, with my limits at its core. Lucinda would receive the same treatment as any other visitor if she were invited. No particular advantages. No implicit power.
Since then, she has not requested to host anything. A week later, she emailed in a hurry and without any punctuation:
didn’t intend to annoy you.
In any case, I hope we can get past this misunderstanding.
I didn’t read it.
Since then, I’ve seated her next to the pantry at every get-together so that she can “manage” again if she wants to, but yet be far enough away that I can’t hear her chew.
I’m not requesting to be included this time. Who gets to stay is up to me.
