When my mother-in-law, Margaret, popped out of the kitchen for a moment, my father-in-law, Harold, turned to me and barked, “Emily, go warm up that chicken—it’s gone cold!” I froze, blinking at him like he’d just asked me to defuse a bomb. Since when was I the hired help? If you’re that desperate, microwave it yourself, I wanted to snap. Instead, stroking their tabby, Whiskers, who was weaving between my ankles, I replied, “Harold, I’m not your housekeeper. Warm it up yourself.” He glared at me like I’d declared mutiny, while my blood simmered. This wasn’t about chicken—it was a line in the sand I refused to cross.
My husband, James, and I live separately, but every Sunday we troop over to his parents’ for dinner. Margaret’s cooking is divine—her shepherd’s pie could make a grown man weep—and I’m always happy to chat, eat, and hear her stories. Harold usually broods at the head of the table like a disgruntled admiral, grumbling more than speaking. I’d grown used to his demands—”pass the gravy,” “clear the plates”—but shrugged it off. Old habits, right? This time, though, he’d gone too far.
That evening, we were tucking into roast chicken with roasties. Margaret flitted about, piling seconds onto plates while I helped tidy up. When she nipped out to fetch pudding, Harold seized his moment. There I was, idly petting Whiskers (who’d claimed my lap as his throne), when came the order: “Warm the chicken!” For a second, I wondered if I’d misheard. He stared at me like I owed him feudal service. Meanwhile, I’d just clocked off work, exhausted, in my Sunday dress—here as a guest, not a scullery maid.
My retort clearly shocked him. He huffed something about “young people these days, no respect.” Respect? What about respecting me? I’m happy to help, but that wasn’t a request—it was a command, like I was his personal butler. Margaret returned, sensing tension, and asked, “What’s happened?” Before I could speak, Harold cut in: “Nothing. Emily just won’t lift a finger for an old man.” Lift a finger? Since when is microwaving leftovers a Herculean task? Biting back a sharper reply, I said, “Margaret, I’m always glad to help—but I’m not staff.”
On the drive home, I vented to James. He played peacekeeper, as usual: “Love, Dad doesn’t mean harm. He’s just used to Mum waiting on him. Don’t take it to heart.” Easy for him to say—he wasn’t being ordered about like a footman! I reminded him I didn’t mind helping, but Harold’s tone was pure Downton Abbey downstairs. James promised to “have a word,” though I know he avoids conflict. “Mum’ll sort him out,” he added. Margaret might, bless her, but I refuse to be the reason for family drama.
Now I’m plotting my next move. Part of me wants to stage a sit-in next Sunday—let Harold wrestle with the microwave himself. But that’s childish, and I’d hate to upset Margaret. Another part wants to say, plainly, “Harold, I respect you, but I’m not your servant. Let’s treat each other decently.” Yet I fear he’ll take it as insolence, and cue the theatrics. My mate Sarah advised, “Just joke it off—tell him the microwave’s user-friendly.” Joke? Maybe. Right now, though, I’m too miffed to laugh.
I remember when Harold was kinder. When James and I first married, he’d praise my roast veg and spin tales of his youth. Now? He’s decided I should leap to attention like Margaret. But I’m not her! I’ve got my own job, my own life, and I visit as family—not staff. I love them, but I won’t be bossed about. Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s habit, but I won’t be walked over—not even for peace.
For now, I’ll stay polite but firm. Next time Harold barks an order, I’ll smile and say, “The microwave’s in the corner—it doesn’t bite.” And if that fails? I’ll talk to Margaret. I won’t stir the pot, but I won’t swallow scraps either. Their house, their rules—but I’m not their serf. Let him nuke his own chicken. I’ll stick to petting Whiskers. At least he understands me.
