When my mother-in-law, Margaret Elizabeth, stepped out of the kitchen for a moment, my father-in-law, Victor William, turned to me and barked, “Emily, go heat up that chicken—it’s gone cold!” I froze, stunned. Was I suddenly the hired help? If you want it warmed, do it yourself, I wanted to snap, but instead, stroking the tabby cat weaving around my ankles, I replied, “Victor William, I’m not your maid. Heat it yourself.” He glared at me like I’d committed treason, while inside, my blood boiled. This wasn’t about chicken—it was a line I refused to cross.
My husband, James, and I live on our own, but every Sunday, we visit his parents for supper. Margaret Elizabeth cooks like a dream—her shepherd’s pie could make you weep—and I’m always happy to come, to chat, to listen to her stories. Victor William usually broods at the head of the table, grumbling more than speaking. I’m used to his orders: “Pass the salt,” “Clear the plates.” I’d brush it off—old habits, what can you do? But this time, he’d gone too far.
That evening, we sat eating roast chicken with potatoes. Margaret Elizabeth bustled about, piling more food onto plates, while I helped clear the dishes. When she slipped out to fetch the pudding, Victor William seized his moment. I was stroking their cat, Whiskers, purring in my lap, when he snapped, “Heat the chicken!” For a second, I thought I’d misheard. He stared at me like I owed him service. Meanwhile, I’d come straight from work, exhausted, in my Sunday dress—here as a guest, not a scullery maid.
My response stunned him. He scowled, muttering, “Youth today—no respect.” Respect? Where was *his* respect for *me*? I don’t mind helping, but this wasn’t a request—it was a command, like I was there to jump at his word. When Margaret Elizabeth returned, sensing tension, she asked, “What’s happened?” I opened my mouth, but Victor William cut in: “Nothing. Emily just won’t lift a finger for an old man.” *Lift a finger?* Since when is microwaving chicken a heroic deed? I bit back my anger, saying only, “Margaret Elizabeth, I’m happy to help, but I’m not your servant.”
On the drive home, I told James. He tried to smooth things over: “Em, Dad doesn’t mean harm—he’s just used to Mum waiting on him. Don’t take it to heart.” *Don’t take it to heart?* Easy for him—he’s not the one being ordered about! I reminded him I didn’t mind helping, but Victor William’s tone was like I was the hired help. James promised to speak to his father, though I know he hates confrontation. “I’ll tell Mum—she’ll sort him,” he added. Margaret Elizabeth might indeed talk sense into him—she always sticks up for me—but I won’t have family strife on my account.
Now I’m left wondering what to do. Part of me wants to sit idle next time—let Victor William heat his own blasted chicken. But that’s childish, and I won’t hurt Margaret Elizabeth; she doesn’t deserve it. Another part wants to say it plain: “Victor William, I respect you, but I’m not your skivvy. Let’s treat each other properly.” Yet I fear he’ll take it as insolence, and the drama will erupt. My mate, when I complained, advised, “Em, just joke it off—tell him the microwave’s waiting.” Joke? Maybe humor’s the answer, but right now, I’m too furious.
I remember when Victor William was kinder. When James and I first married, he even praised my trifle, told rambling tales of his youth. Now? It’s like he expects me to leap at his every word, just like Margaret Elizabeth. But I’m *not* her—I’ve my own job, my own life, and I visit as family, not staff. I love them, but I won’t tolerate orders. Maybe it’s age, maybe habit—but I won’t be belittled, not even for peace’s sake.
For now, I’ll stay polite but firm. Next time Victor William barks an order, I’ll smile and say, “The microwave’s in the corner—offering to help itself.” And if that fails, I’ll talk to Margaret Elizabeth. She’ll understand. I don’t want rows, but I won’t stay silent. Their house is theirs—but *I* am not their property. Let him heat his own chicken. I’d rather stroke Whiskers. He’s the only one in that kitchen who gets me, anyway.
