Eggs kept vanishing from my fridge.

We barely ate them — they were for my kids since eggs are practically a luxury item now.

Every time my MIL, Andrea, visited? More eggs gone.

So, I set up a hidden camera.

And what did I catch?

Andrea stuffing eggs into her bag, then walking straight to my neighbor, Mrs. Davis, and selling them for cash.

I later asked Mrs. Davis where she got her eggs.

“Oh, from your sweet MIL! She has backyard chickens and sells them cheap — only $4 a dozen!”

FOUR. DOLLARS.

Andrea was stealing from me and running a black-market egg business.

I wanted to explode. But instead, I planned the perfect lesson.

I spent over an hour carefully hollowing out an entire carton of eggs, but watching that golden yolk drain away was oddly satisfying.

After that I mixed up a special concoction of mustard and hot sauce, carefully refilling each shell before placing them back in the carton.

“What are you doing?” James asked, wandering into the kitchen around midnight. “Is that… mustard?”

“Justice,” I replied, not looking up from my work. “Sweet, yellow justice.”

The trap was set. That weekend, Andrea came over for her usual visit with the grandkids.

I pretended to be absorbed in my phone while she did her usual routine. She hugged the children, commented on how much they’d grown, and subtly positioned herself near the kitchen.

“Oh, let me get some water,” she said casually. Then she walked into the kitchen while I pretended to help Tommy with his homework.

I immediately pulled out my phone and watched on the camera as she slipped the eggs into her bag.

She hurriedly crossed the yard and handed the eggs over to Mrs. Davis. Within minutes, she was back inside, fawning over the kids like nothing had happened.

That evening, I invited Andrea to have a cup of tea with me on the back porch. From here, we had a clear view of Mrs. Davis’s kitchen.

She didn’t have curtains in her kitchen windows, and I often sat here in the evenings to watch her bake.

Mrs. Davis walked back and forth a few times carrying flour, bowls, and other items. Then, she cracked it open and screamed as yellow mustard and hot sauce mixture burst from the egg.

“What on earth?” Andrea yelled.

I pretended to look around with concern.

Moments later, the pounding on our front door made her jump again.

I fought to keep the grin off my face. Mrs. Davis stood there, hands covered in mustard, face red with fury, looking like she’d just discovered her winning lottery ticket was fake.

“Those eggs!” she sputtered as I invited her inside. “They were filled with… with…”

“Eggs?” I asked innocently. “Oh, you mean the ones you bought from Andrea? Is something wrong with them?”

Andrea stepped into the living room then. Mrs. Davis immediately stomped toward her.

“Andrea? What’s going on? The eggs you sold me… they’re full of mustard and hot sauce!”

“What? That can’t be. Rebecca,” Andrea hissed. “What did you do?”

I crossed my arms. “What did I do? I think the better question is, what were you doing stealing my groceries and selling them to my neighbor?”

Mrs. Davis’s mouth fell open. “Wait… you stole these eggs from Rebecca?”

Andrea’s face turned a shade of red, clashing spectacularly with her floral blouse.

“I can’t believe this,” Mrs. Davis muttered. She jabbed her finger at Andrea, dripping mustard onto my floor. “I trusted you! All that talk about your backyard chickens… I’ve been telling everyone at my bridge club about your amazing eggs!”

She stormed out, slamming the door hard. Andrea didn’t stick around much longer. She grabbed her purse and practically ran out the door, leaving her tea half-finished on the table.

I waited until she was gone before I started laughing. When James got home and I told him the whole story, he laughed even harder than I did.

“That’s what you were doing with the mustard and hot sauce?” he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “That’s brilliant! But also slightly terrifying. Remind me never to steal your groceries.”

Now, our eggs stay exactly where they belong — in our fridge.

Andrea never mentioned the incident again, and Mrs. Davis found a new egg supplier. But sometimes, when I’m putting groceries away, I catch myself smiling. Because nothing tastes sweeter than the satisfaction of catching an egg thief red-handed.