Eggs kept vanishing from my refrigerator, always after my mother-in-law, Andrea, paid us a visit. At first, I assumed she might be going through a rough patch and had taken a few for herself, but I needed confirmation. I installed a hidden camera, but what I discovered left me utterly stunned.
I never expected to turn into a part-time investigator over something as basic as eggs. But when you’re forking out nearly $6 for a dozen, you begin to take notice.
My husband, James, and I hardly used them ourselves. We mainly bought them for our children’s breakfasts, and even then, we treated each one like it was a rare gem.
Yet, somehow, they kept disappearing at an alarming speed.
“James, I could have sworn there were more eggs in here yesterday,” I said one morning, peering into the fridge.
Something felt off. The carton was too light in my grasp.
“Come on, Rebecca,” he muttered, still focused on his phone. “Maybe the kids made some eggs when they got home from school.”
“No, they ate grilled cheese,” I responded, pulling the carton out and setting it on the counter. “I’ve been keeping count. There were eight yesterday. Now, only four remain.”
“You’re tracking our eggs now?” He finally looked up, one eyebrow raised. “That’s some next-level grocery stress, even for you.”
“When they cost this much? Absolutely.” I shut the fridge door with more force than necessary, causing the bottles inside to clatter. “And I’m telling you, something’s not adding up. This has happened before.”
James exhaled, setting his phone down. “Babe, they’re just eggs. Maybe we’re using them more than we realize.”
“No, you’re missing the point. I’ve been monitoring this for weeks now.” I started pacing, my slippers sliding against the tiles. “I’m setting up a hidden camera to catch whoever’s taking them.”
James chuckled. “You’re putting our fridge under surveillance?”
“Exactly,” I confirmed.
There was a crucial detail I hadn’t shared with James yet. When I initially began keeping track of our eggs, I noticed an unsettling pattern—whenever my mother-in-law, Andrea, came over, some always went missing.
At first, I wondered if she might be struggling financially. These were tough times, and eggs were practically a luxury, but something didn’t sit right.
Even though James and I had talked many times about his mother’s habit of overstepping boundaries, I didn’t want to point fingers without solid proof.
“Alright, detective,” James said, pushing his chair back. “Do what you need to do to crack the case.”
That same day, I ordered a small camera with overnight shipping. I positioned it on a kitchen shelf, aiming directly at the fridge.
The footage revealed far more than I anticipated. I sat at the kitchen table, mouth hanging open, watching the video on my phone.
There she was—completely unbothered—methodically transferring eggs from my carton into her tote bag. She carefully wrapped each one in a small cloth, tucking them away like prized possessions.
But what she did next truly blew my mind.
Rather than taking them home, she exited through our back door and strolled straight across the yard—to Mrs. Davis’s house. Our neighbor.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I whispered, leaning in closer to the screen.
By sheer luck, our fridge was near the back door, and the camera had just enough range to capture what happened next.
I watched, stunned, as Andrea handed the eggs to Mrs. Davis, who, in return, slipped her some cash. My mother-in-law had been running an underground egg-selling operation right out of my kitchen.
“The absolute audacity,” I murmured to myself. I rewound the footage three times, making sure I wasn’t misinterpreting it. “She’s been swiping my eggs and selling them to the neighbor!”
That evening, I decided to do some digging.
I spotted Mrs. Davis outside watering her roses and casually wandered over.
“Hey there, Mrs. Davis,” I called, leaning against her fence. “Just curious—where do you usually get your eggs from?”
Her face brightened as if I’d just offered her front-row seats to a Broadway show.
“Oh! Your wonderful mother-in-law! She has backyard chickens and sells them at a bargain—just $4 a dozen! But I suppose you already knew that.”
I felt my smile stiffen.
Backyard chickens? Andrea lived in a third-floor condo. The closest she could get to raising chickens was putting a decorative rooster on her balcony.
“I guess you didn’t realize I already buy from her and wanted to offer me a discount,” Mrs. Davis continued, chuckling. “How kind of you!” She then winked. “Who would’ve thought eggs would turn into a black-market deal?”
She laughed before excusing herself to finish watering her plants, leaving me fuming.
That night, I devised a plan to teach Andrea a well-deserved lesson.
It took me over an hour to carefully drain an entire carton of eggs, but watching the golden yolks swirl away down the sink was oddly satisfying.
I then concocted a potent blend of mustard and hot sauce, meticulously refilling each eggshell before returning them to the carton.
“What… are you doing?” James asked, stepping into the kitchen close to midnight. “Is that mustard?”
“This,” I said without looking up, “is justice. Spicy, yellow justice.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not. But I’d suggest grabbing some popcorn for tomorrow’s entertainment.”
The trap was set. That weekend, Andrea visited as usual to see the grandkids.
I observed her closely while pretending to be glued to my phone. She followed her typical routine—greeting the children, commenting on their growth, and strategically positioning herself near the kitchen.
“Oh, I’ll just grab some water,” she announced casually before slipping into the kitchen.
I instantly checked the camera feed. Just as expected, she pocketed the eggs and hurried out the back door. Within minutes, she was back inside, chatting as if nothing had happened.
That evening, I invited Andrea to enjoy a cup of tea with me on the back porch. From there, we had a perfect view of Mrs. Davis’s kitchen.
She never used curtains, and I often watched her bake from here. Tonight, however, promised a different kind of spectacle.
Mrs. Davis bustled around, gathering ingredients. Then, she picked up an egg.
She cracked it open—and let out a bloodcurdling scream as mustard and hot sauce sprayed everywhere.
Andrea jerked upright, nearly dropping her teacup. “What on earth?”
I feigned confusion. “Hmm?”
Then, a furious pounding on our front door made her jump again.
I strolled over leisurely, barely suppressing my grin.
There stood Mrs. Davis, hands smeared with mustard, face flushed with rage. She looked like someone who had just realized their winning lottery ticket was fake.
“Those eggs!” she shrieked as I motioned her inside. “They were filled with… with…”
“Eggs?” I asked, all innocence. “Oh! You mean the ones you bought from Andrea? Was there a problem?”
Andrea entered the room at that moment. Mrs. Davis spun toward her, seething.
“Andrea?! What’s going on? The eggs you sold me were full of mustard and hot sauce!”
“That’s not possible. Rebecca—” Andrea hissed, turning toward me. “What did you do?”
I folded my arms. “Me? The real question is, why were you stealing from my fridge and selling my groceries?”
Mrs. Davis gawked. “Wait… you took these eggs from Rebecca?”
Silence.
Andrea’s face turned an impressive shade of crimson, clashing with her floral blouse. She opened and closed her mouth like a fish, unable to find words.
“I can’t believe this,” Mrs. Davis muttered. She jabbed a mustard-covered finger at Andrea. “I trusted you! I even told my entire bridge club about your incredible eggs!”
She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled. Andrea barely stayed long enough to grab her purse before fleeing, her half-finished tea abandoned.
Once she was gone, I burst into laughter. When James got home, I recounted the entire ordeal. He laughed so hard, he had to wipe tears from his eyes.
“That’s what you did with the mustard and hot sauce?” he wheezed. “Genius. Also, kind of terrifying. I’ll never touch your groceries again.”
Since then, our eggs have remained exactly where they belong—safe in our fridge.
