I live with my husband, Tom, and a few months ago, his 22-year-old daughter Kayla moved in “just for a little while” after college.
We said yes, of course.
Big mistake.
She treats the house like an Airbnb and me like a maid. Cereal bowls on the couch, makeup wipes in the sink, banana peels under the cushions (??).
I asked her nicely—“Can you clean up after yourself?”
Cue: eye roll, sigh, silence.
Tom? Completely clueless.
“She’s just adjusting. Don’t nitpick,” he said.
Then one Sunday, I deep-cleaned the living room. I came back to find soda cans, takeout trash, orange Cheeto dust ground into the rug… and Kayla, feet up, grinning.
“Hey,” she said, not even looking up. “Make pancakes.”
That was it.
If she wants a maid?
She’s getting one—but not the way she expects.
Game on.
The next morning, I woke up early, tied my hair back, and dressed in all black — head to toe.
Then I printed a name tag:
“KAREN – LIVE-IN MAID”
When Kayla stumbled into the kitchen in her pajamas, I was standing at the counter, arms folded.
“Good morning, Miss Kayla,” I said in my best hotel staff voice. “Your maid is ready for duty.”
She blinked. “Uh… what?”
I gestured to the trash pile she’d left on the coffee table. “Shall I begin with your royal throne room, or would madam prefer breakfast in bed?”
Kayla squinted. “Are you being serious?”
“Oh yes,” I said sweetly. “Very. Serious.”
She turned and walked off, muttering something about me being weird. I smiled and followed her around all day.
I took notes on a clipboard.
Recorded her every mess.
Announced things like,
“The Queen has dropped her towel again!”
or
“Another banana peel has fallen from the heavens!”
That evening, when Tom came home, I offered him a glass of water and said,
“Welcome to our five-star resort. Would you like to see the tip jar?”
Kayla sulked in her room.
By Day 3, I added extra flair:
- I rang a bell every time she made a mess.
- I put labels on her trash: “Exhibit A: Disrespect.”
- I made a cleaning schedule… just for her.
Then I posted it on the fridge with gold stars.
She was not amused.
Finally, at dinner, she exploded.
“This is harassment! You’re making fun of me!”
I smiled calmly. “No, darling. I’m treating you the way you’ve treated this house—and me—for weeks.”
Tom finally put down his fork. “Kayla… she’s right. It’s time you grew up.”
Silence.
She didn’t say anything for the rest of the meal.
The next morning?
No banana peels.
No makeup wipes.
No Cheeto fingerprints.
Instead, I found a note on the counter:
“I’ll clean the bathroom today. And I’ll make pancakes tomorrow.
– Kayla.”
Guess the “maid” finally got through.
Epilogue – Two Weeks Later
Kayla actually kept her word.
The bathroom sparkled. Dishes were done. And every Saturday morning, there were pancakes waiting—fluffy, golden, and stacked high like a peace offering.
At first, she made them in silence. No eye contact, just awkward spatula flips and burned edges.
But by week three, she sat with us to eat.
By week four, she asked how I like my coffee.
One quiet morning, while Tom was out, Kayla lingered in the kitchen. I was wiping down the counters when she spoke up.
“I’m sorry.”
I turned. She wasn’t looking at me, just twisting her fingers the way nervous kids do.
“I didn’t mean to act like a brat,” she said. “I guess I was angry. I didn’t get the job I wanted after college. I didn’t know where I belonged. And I… took it out on you.”
I blinked. That was… unexpected.
“You didn’t deserve that. You were just trying to help me feel at home,” she added. “And I trashed it. Literally.”
I set the towel down. “Thank you, Kayla. That means a lot.”
She hesitated, then pulled something from her hoodie pocket—a little hand-drawn star chart labeled
“Karen’s Revenge Cleaning Service – Employee of the Month.”
We both burst out laughing.
After that, things changed for good. She still left a spoon in the sink now and then—but she also left sticky notes that said “Thank you” or “Coffee’s on me today :)”
And every now and then, she calls me “Karen” with a wink.
I call her “The Princess of Pancakes.”
Turns out, sometimes the best way to build respect… is to ring a bell, wear a name tag, and dare to be just a little extra.
Game over. Family won. 🎯
