*Casual, warm voice message style:*
Oh my god, you won’t believe what just happened. So, my mother-in-law’s 60th birthday was coming up—huge deal, right? And guess who got roped into organising the whole thing? Me, obviously.
Margaret—sorry, *Margaret Elizabeth*—hit me with the classic: *“Oh, darling, you’re just so wonderful at these things! Could you *help* me with the party?”* Help. Yeah. That meant I did *everything*. Two weeks of my life down the drain.
I found the venue in London, rewrote the menu three times because *“Auntie Susan doesn’t eat gluten, and Cousin Jeremy’s allergic to nuts.”* Hired the entertainer, sorted the photographer, even stayed up half the night blowing up those ridiculous balloons. And the cherry on top? We footed the bill because Margaret couldn’t cover it.
My husband, bless him, *pretended* to help—nodding along to my ideas while scrolling on his phone. *“Yes, love, brilliant idea.”* Meanwhile, Margaret called daily with her *pearls of wisdom*, never once asking if I needed a hand. Honestly, I lost half a stone from stress.
Fast-forward to the big day. The venue’s sparkling, guests are dolled up, Margaret’s in a new dress like the Queen herself. And me? Too busy playing unpaid event manager to even fix my hair—running around sorting drunk uncles and misplaced kids.
Finally, I sit down to actually *eat*, and the host announces: *“Now, a word from our lovely birthday girl!”* Margaret takes the mic, and—naively—I think, *Here it comes, the thank-you for all my sleepless nights.*
Instead? *“Darling everyone! I’m *so* grateful to see you all! But most of all—my *golden boy*, my *Trevor*! None of this would’ve happened without you!”* Cue applause. My *husband* blushes, blows her a kiss. Not a *peep* about me. Like I was a ghost.
Something inside me *snapped*. So I stood up, sweet as pie, and asked the host for the mic.
*“Lovely guests! Margaret! I *completely* agree—Trevor’s the *real* star. So I’ve got a *little* gift for them both.”* I pulled out the *invoice* from the venue—all £3,000 of it—and laid it right in front of them.
*“Since *you* organised this, it’s only fair *you* settle the bill. Heroes finish what they start, don’t they?”*
Dead. Silence. Trevor went sheet-white. Margaret gaped like a fish. The whole room froze.
I dropped the mic—figuratively—grabbed my bag, and walked out, head high. Rude? Maybe. Satisfying? *Absolutely.*
(P.S. The party ended shortly after. Oops.)
