Off The Record

My Spiteful Sister-In-law Flooded Our Kitchen—So We Taught Her A Lesson She’ll Never Forget

Published on November 21, 2025

When I was eight months pregnant, I let my sister-in-law to remain with us. “It will only be temporary,” she said. She ruined our kitchen and left with a sly smile two months later when we were out with our baby. She believed she had gotten away with it. She was wrong.

I wish I could claim that I understood Tessa, my sister-in-law, or that her actions were motivated by some hidden grief. Perhaps she felt invisible because she was raised in her big brother’s shadow. Perhaps something that was already brittle inside her was broken by her difficulties. However, that didn’t make what she did acceptable.

Tessa contacted us crying while I was eight months pregnant, with swollen ankles and all. She was unable to pay her rent because she had recently lost her work. She assured him that she would be back on her feet in no more than a week, possibly two at most.

I said what any normal person would say after glancing down at my stomach and then at the hospital bag that was partially packed in our bedroom’s corner.

“You are welcome to remain here, Tessa. We’ll create space.”

To give her enough room, my husband, Mark, and I even moved some boxes out of the guest room. Instead of making her feel burdensome, we wanted her to feel at ease. Family does that, don’t they? They support one another during difficult times.

That choice proved to be the biggest error I had made in a long time.

She promised a week, but it ended up being two weeks. Next, three. Then a month. Tessa took over as if she owned the property, rather than just staying with us.

Every surface in the house was covered in empty Starbucks cups. The coffee table was covered in Taco Bell wrappers. She would watch reality shows at full volume until two in the morning, then have the audacity to complain the following day about our dog barking too loudly when the mailman arrived.

She would roll her eyes at me and wave her hand dismissively if I subtly indicated that she might want to start looking for job.

“Calm down, soon-to-be mother!” she would remark, smiling patronisingly. “All this stress isn’t good for the baby.”

I’m shocked it didn’t fall off because I bit my tongue so many times. Mark constantly reminding me to have patience because his sister was going through a difficult moment and we should be kind to her.

Therefore, despite my gut telling me that this would not end well, I kept silent and made an effort to maintain harmony.

By the time I was 38 weeks pregnant, Tessa had managed to get our DoorDash password, was still unemployed, and hadn’t paid a dime for groceries or electricity. Like she was working up a bill at an all-you-can-eat buffet, she had been using Mark’s card to get milkshakes and wings.

She simply shrugged and smiled pleasantly when I finally challenged her about it.

“Well, you’re eating for two,” she remarked. “I’m just keeping up.”

I was worn out from the hospital when our kid was born, but I was giddy with the joy of a new mother. As I entered our front door with my beloved baby boy in my arms, prepared to begin our lives as a family of three, I was moved to tears by what I saw.

The residence appeared to have been the scene of a frat party during our absence. There were blankets and pillows scattered all over every piece of furniture, dishes piled in the sink and trash overflowing.

Tessa’s belongings were all over the place: her laptop took up half the dining table, shoes kicked off in the hallway and makeup on the bathroom counter.

With my newborn boy dozing in my arms, I stood at the doorway. It seemed like everything nice and safe had been pulled out from under me as my chest constricted and a chilling rush ran down my spine. Mark wrapped his arm around me as soon as he saw my face.

“I’ll talk to her,” he muttered. “I swear. Let’s just take you upstairs so you can sleep.”

We finally had the chat a week later. As gently as possible, Mark sat Tessa down and explained that we now needed privacy. We needed our privacy back because we had a baby to look after.

It wasn’t warmly received by her.

“You’re throwing family out on the street?” Her face flushed as she screamed. “Having a baby at home? Whoa. Whoa. Both of you will regret doing this.”

A picture frame rattled on the wall as she slammed the door shut after storming off to her room.

That night, I didn’t get any sleep. Her footsteps pacing back and forth and the opening and closing of cabinets were all I could hear as she moved around downstairs. I convinced myself that my postpartum hormones were causing me to hallucinate things and that I was simply being paranoid.

I ought to have followed my instincts.

Mark and I had an appointment with our son’s paediatrician the next morning. He need his first examination when he was just two weeks old. After making sure we had extra bottles and packing his nappy bag, we left. We were only gone for a maximum of two hours, or perhaps an hour and a half.

I was glad to be home when we pulled back into the driveway. I was still recuperating after giving birth, and I was worn out from every outing. After assisting me in getting out of the car, Mark and I approached the front door.

I heard it at that point.

The splash. The trickle. The sound of rushing water, always bubbling.

“What is that?” With my heart beginning to race, I asked.

We entered once Mark unlocked the door. I probably woke up half the neighbourhood with my scream.

There was two inches of water on the kitchen floor.

As I watched water soak into the hallway carpet and spread across our hardwood floors, I remained still, holding my infant to my chest. The tap was still flowing at full blast as Mark dashed to the washbasin to turn it off. The water was still running after someone used a dish towel to block the drain.

Below the sink, every cabinet was destroyed. Everything we had kept there was destroyed, and the wood was bent by the water. All I could think about was how we were going to pay for this as I saw it grow towards the living room.

“Call Tessa,” I murmured, trembling. “Call her right now.”

With shaking hands, Mark took out his phone and dialled his sister’s number. He switched it to speaker.

As soon as she took it up, he demanded, “What did you do?” “The kitchen’s flooded.”

She sounded lethargic and phony-innocent, as if she were speaking to a young child who had accused her of stealing cookies.

“Oh, Mark, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Perhaps you all forgot to shut off the tap. With the baby and everything else, you’ve been quite preoccupied.”

She hung up on us after that.

While my anxiousness was out of control and the house smelt like mildew, I sat in our bedroom that night feeding my son. Even though I was already experiencing a wide range of postpartum emotions, this felt like outright evil. Who would harm their own family in this way?

I could hardly afford to renovate a whole kitchen, much less replace my pregnancy jeans. I felt like throwing up at the thought of the repair expenditures.

The following day, Mark phoned Tessa once more and insisted that she cover the costs of the repairs. She disputed everything, claiming that we had no evidence that it was her and that we were only attempting to hold her accountable for our own negligence.

Her words, “You’re both out of your minds,” “I would never act in such a manner. I’m glad I moved out already.”

No evidence was found. Not a witness. Our word against hers only. I was exhausted, angry, and powerless.

Then I had a memory.

I had been experimenting with our new nanny cam two days before to the flood. I could check it from my phone while working in a different room because it was one of those sophisticated ones with a camera. To get the ideal angle, I had been positioning it in various locations throughout the house.

I had left it pointing directly towards the sink on the kitchen shelf. Tessa must have missed it.

My heart began to race. With trembling hands, I reached for my phone and launched the monitor app. I prayed that I was correct as I frantically went through the saved video.

There she was.

Tessa.

We had departed for the paediatrician that very morning, and the timestamp showed 9:42 a.m. She was pulling her bag towards the door while sporting her pink hoodie. But she stopped before she went. She went directly to the kitchen sink after turning around.

I observed her jamming rags and dishtowels into the drain until it was totally clogged. After turning the tap on full blast, she watched the water begin to rise for a moment before leaving the room.

She had a sly smile.

Without hesitation. No regret. Just spite, deliberate and pure.

As though I had swallowed sand, my tongue adhered to the roof of my mouth. Mark went white when I turned the TV to face him.

Whispering, “She did it on purpose,” I said.

I could see the muscle twitching as his jaw tightened. His voice was deadly calm as he said, “Okay,” slowly. “Then we’ll handle this our way.”

We acted as if nothing had happened for the following few days. We texted Tessa to let her know that we had made up our minds to forgive her and that all we wanted was family harmony. She responded with a smiley face emoji almost instantly.

“Glad you’re finally being adults about it! 😀” wrote she.

I took a big breath and played along, even though I wanted to hurl my phone across the room. That Saturday, we invited her to supper and explained that we wanted to start over and make amends.

“Mark’s cooking,” I said gently. “It’ll be nice for us all to sit down together.”

She arrived on schedule, decked up in one of her usual extravagant ensembles, complete with a leopard-print scarf and faux pearls. She had even brought an inexpensive cake from the grocery store with the words “Family Forever” written in blue frosting.

I nearly burst out laughing at her.

We arranged our lovely dishes on the table. A glass of wine was poured for her by Mark. I made insignificant small conversation while serving lasagna. Tessa appeared quite arrogant and certain that she had gotten away with it all. She seemed to be doing us a favour by eating her meal and praising Mark’s cooking.

I got up from the table after she completed her piece of cake and pushed her plate away.

“Actually, Tessa,” I responded, maintaining a steady tone. “We have something for you.”

Mark vanished into the corridor and returned with a tiny white box. On the lid, he had neatly inscribed, “Solatium.”

Tessa raised her eyebrows. She exclaimed, “Finally showing some gratitude,” as she greedily reached for it.

She opened the lid. A manila envelope was inside. Her expression changed from smug to perplexed as she withdrew it.

Printouts of screenshots from the baby monitor footage were enclosed in the mail.

Tessa was seen using dish cloths to plug the sink in the first picture. She was seen turning the tap on full blast in the second image. As she left, the third photograph showed water rising around her suitcase.

There was a single sheet of paper underneath the pictures. In strong letters near the top was the text, “INVOICE—Property Damage Compensation: $6,742.”

The words “Consider this your eviction notice from our lives” are written in Mark’s handwriting beneath that.

The colour left Tessa’s face. Her hands began to shake.

“You recorded me?” she asked in a high-pitched voice.

I leaned forward and gave her a direct look.

“Honey, I didn’t videotape you. It was the baby monitor. It’s funny how things sometimes turn out, isn’t it?”

Her chair screeched across the floor as she got to her feet.

Sputtered, “You can’t do this,” “This is against the law. People cannot just be recorded without their consent.”

Mark interrupted her in a cool, collected tone. In actuality, it’s entirely lawful. We live there. The video has already been sent to our insurance provider. According to them, there is unmistakable evidence of deliberate property damage. He hesitated. “Oh, and the landlord at your previous flat complex also received a copy from us. He will be overjoyed to see how responsible you are, I’m sure.”

The opening and closing of Tessa’s mouth resembled a fish struggling to breathe. She had nothing to say for the first time in her life.

Mark then looked at his timepiece. “The locksmith should be here in about five minutes.”

“You’re changing the locks?” The sound of Tessa’s voice was a choked gasp.

“Yes,” Mark replied with a smile.

At that moment, she began to babble, her words coming out in a furious rush. “You cannot simply destroy your family in this way. I’m owed by you. I am your sister. Despite your cruelty, you believe yourself to be flawless. Both of you are cruel.”

I got to my feet and gave her a direct look. I felt powerful and steady for the first time in weeks.

“No, Tessa. When I was carrying a two-week-old newborn, you flooded my house. You tried to lie about it, and you did it intentionally and out of sheer hatred. That is not a family. That is cruel.”

She frantically scanned her surroundings, realising that nobody would be able to save her. She no longer had anyone on her side.

She had blocked our sink with the same dish towel, which Mark grabbed from the counter and extended to her.

“Here,” he uttered quietly. “Wipe away your tears. Then depart.”

I’m sure she said something unpleasant under her breath, grabbed the box, and rushed to the door. The tile floor still had faint water streaks from her little prank, and her heels clattered noisily against it.

Ten minutes later, the locksmith came and changed all of our locks while I rocked my infant in the living room. The drill’s sound, like the last punctuation mark on a bad chapter, was strangely calming.

Mark took a seat next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. “You okay?”

“For the first time in months,” I responded, “I actually am.”

The video proof helped the insurance company pay for the majority of the kitchen repairs. We had to pay for the remainder ourselves. Although it wasn’t inexpensive, the tranquilly it provided was well worth the cost.

Since that dinner, Tessa has not gotten back to us. However, we were informed by a common relative that she attempted to boast on the internet that she had “chosen to move out” because we were “too controlling.”

Yes. That’s precisely what took place.

A few weeks after everything had calmed down, I received an email from an unfamiliar sender. It was Tessa’s former apartment building’s landlord. It seems that she was attempting to rent a new place and had used our address as a reference.

He was curious about our opinion of her as a tenant.

For a time, I sat there with my finger lingering over the keyboard. I then responded with a kind, businesslike email:

“Tessa did spend a few weeks with us. But after she seriously damaged our house with water, we had to ask her to leave. If you require documentation, I’ve included it.”

He expressed gratitude for my candour. He confirmed via email the following day that Tessa had been turned down for the flat.

I felt no remorse. Not in the slightest.

Drama and yelling aren’t always necessary to achieve closure. All you need is the truth, steady hands, and the patience to let the facts do the talking instead of you. The rest falls into place when someone reveals you who they are.

You simply let them sign the notice of eviction on their own. If you’re feeling particularly giving, you might even package it as a present for them.

Now Trending:

Please let us know your thoughts and SHARE this story with your Friends and Family!

Share on Facebook

Save