Seven days. That’s all it took for my mother-in-law to turn my home into her empire. I left for a business trip with a fridge full of notes and a head full of worry. When I came back, Jason played piano, Kyle ate syrupy pancakes, and tofu ruled my kitchen. Gloria? She was smiling like a queen on her throne.

My son’s football dreams were benched, my husband’s diet forgotten, and even the furniture had been rearranged. Gloria had scrubbed every trace of me from my own kingdom. And Kyle — sweet, clueless Kyle — was too full of pancakes to notice. “It’s kind of nice not thinking about everything,” he said.

But someone was thinking. Elliot, my father-in-law, gave me a wink that lit a spark in me. We packed up, grabbed Jason, and escaped to Elliot’s lakeside cabin — dirt, fish guts, and all. While Gloria fretted over clean curtains, we ran barefoot, grilled fish, and laughed until our sides hurt. I remembered who I was: mom, wife, queen.

When Gloria stormed in, horrified by the “barbaric mess,” Elliot stood tall. “This is my house,” he said. “Let our son’s family breathe.” Jason clung to me. Gloria huffed. But the message was clear: her reign was over. I had my home back — and my crown firmly in place.