My mother-in-law moved in “to help.” But when I came home to find three young women folding laundry, flirting, and cutting my husband’s hair, I realized I wasn’t the one being helped—I was being replaced.

I was forty, barely holding life together: three kids, a full-time job, and a husband hiding behind his unpaid “internship.” Ross said Linda’s stay would give me a break. Instead, she brought a redhead, a blonde, and a brunette—former students “temporarily” moving in while their dorm was renovated.

They did chores, tutored the kids, massaged Ross’s ego, and gave him a haircut. Linda sipped tea like a Bond villain and asked sweetly if I was jealous. She thought she’d won.The next day, I took a personal day and invited my helpers—three handy, muscular men with tool belts and manners. They fixed the fence, plumbing, and lawn. One called me “gorgeous.” Ross panicked. Linda fumed.

Then I dropped the bomb: a photo of Linda’s laptop—her handwritten chart titled “Potential Matches for Ross.” Names. Ratings. Notes like “flirty” and “good with kids.”oss stared at it, horrified. “Mom, what the hell?”She said it was a backup plan.By nightfall, the house was quiet. Ross apologized—really apologized—and I told him the good news: I got the promotion.Finally, I could breathe. I wasn’t in a survival show anymore. I had won.