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 cushions (??). I asked her nicely—“Can you clean up after yourself?” Cue: eye roll, sigh, silence. Tom? Clueless. “She’s just adjusting. Don’t nitpick.” Then one Sunday, I deep-cleaned the living room. Came back to find soda cans, takeout trash, orange Cheeto dust on the rug… and Kayla, feet up, grinning. “Hey,” she said, not looking up. “Make pancakes.” That was it. If she wants a maid? She’s getting one — but not the way she expects. Game on. ⬇️