“Thank you, son, for the wonderful celebration!” said my mother-in-law at the table I had spent twelve hours setting. My response came exactly a year later.
You know how it goes, don’t you? December 31st. While most people have everything ready, my kitchen resembles a factory at full tilt. I’ve been on my feet since six in the morning. The air doesn’t smell of pine and tangerines—just hot oil, boiled potatoes, and, quite honestly, my quiet despair.
On the stove, a pot of jelly bubbles away; in the oven, a duck roasts with apples; on the counter, a mountain of vegetables waits for the potato salad and herring under beetroot. In short, the usual New Year’s feast that makes you sick of the sight of food by evening. Meanwhile, my beloved family acts as the “inspection committee.”
My husband lounges on the sofa, calling out with great importance, “Sophie, is the potato for the salad overcooked?” No help, of course—just top-notch supervision! Our grown children, my son and daughter-in-law, scroll through their phones, popping into the kitchen every hour to sneak a slice of sausage.
And at the head of the committee? My mother-in-law, Margaret. She trails behind me, offering pearls of wisdom: “Darling, add the mayonnaise just before serving—you remember, don’t you? And chop the parsley finer.” Oh, how I wanted to sprinkle that parsley over her head! But I stayed silent. Endured it. Because I was the perfect wife and daughter-in-law, expected to pull off a “New Year’s miracle.” Or so I thought.
Then, like clockwork, the clock struck eleven. The table groaned under the weight of dishes—gleaming, shimmering perfection. I collapsed onto a chair, drained as a squeezed lemon. You know the feeling—aching arms, a stiff back, and the only thing you crave isn’t champagne but face-planting into the salad and sleeping.
Everyone settled in, looking splendid. The champagne poured. Then my mother-in-law, ever so grand, raised her glass. Foolishly, I hoped for thanks. Ha!
“My dears!” she began. “Before we bid farewell to the old year, I raise this glass to my wonderful son, our provider! Thank you, darling, for this magnificent feast and this beautiful celebration!”
Girls, my ears rang. Everyone cheered, clinking glasses. My husband puffed up like a proud peacock—after all, it was *him* being praised. Not me.
Not a single glance my way. As if the duck had flung itself into the oven and the salads materialised from thin air.
Then—click. Something inside me switched. Hurt? That’s an understatement. I didn’t cry. Didn’t make a scene. No. My exhaustion vanished, replaced by cold, clear clarity.
I looked at their happy, chewing faces and knew: this was my last New Year as unpaid staff.
That thought kept me warm all year. I played the perfect wife—smiling, cooking—but inside, a plan brewed. A sly, womanly plan. Every month, I tucked away a bit of my salary into a secret account: the “Peace of Mind Fund.”
When summer brought talk of next New Year’s, I’d smile mysteriously. “Oh, we’ll see!” My husband suspected nothing. My mother-in-law assumed her free chef would deliver again. Oh, the naivety.
By December, my plan was ripe. I did what I’d dreamed of for 365 days.
I bought a holiday package—not just anywhere, but a luxurious spa retreat with massages, a pool, and full board. December 30th to January 10th. Paying felt like buying freedom.
On the 30th, while my husband snored, I packed a small suitcase and called a taxi. Writing my note, I grinned—imagining their faces when they read it. On the fridge, I left a bright card:
*”My dears,
This year, I decided not to interfere with the ‘master of New Year’s magic’ you praised so heartily last time. I’m sure he’ll excel again!
The fridge holds all the ingredients for potato salad. The duck recipe is a quick Google search away.
Kisses, Sophie.
P.S. Back January 10th. Don’t miss me too much!”*
Oh, how I wished I could’ve seen their faces! My phone rang as I sat in the taxi—my husband, shouting, stunned and outraged.
So now *I* was the villain for daring to rest? Watching snowy pines pass, I replied calmly:
“Darling, I’m at the spa. Applying a face mask. Don’t fret—just chop the parsley fine, like your mother taught. You’ll manage.”
And did they? Word has it they celebrated with shop-bought dumplings and a bottle of bubbly. Meanwhile, I lounged in a plush robe, serene and happy.
So tell me—was I too harsh? Or is this the only way some learn: take someone’s effort for granted, and one day, the celebration might just vanish?.
