My husband Étienne comes from a big, noisy clanthree brothers and two sisters. All of them have long since set up their own homes with spouses and kids, yet they kept showing up at our place, not just for a coffee but for fullblown parties. There was always a reason: a birthday, a celebration, a wedding anniversary, and every time it was at our house. They claimed, Your place is convenient, the house is big, theres a garden. We had indeed bought a spacious home on the outskirts of Lyon after years of work and savings, complete with a terrace, a barbecue, a patch of lawn and a parking spot, and the whole family decided it would now serve as their second home.
At first I liked it. I had grown up as an only child, without siblings, and I enjoyed feeling part of a large family. We set the table, roasted meat, laughed together. Then it became a nightmare. Do you know what its like to cook for more than fifteen people? No one ever asked if they could help. The women would settle in the shade with a glass of wine, the men would head off to light the grill, and I was already in the kitchen at dawn, chopping, sautéing, washing, peeling, serving plates, clearing dishes. Only Étienne would look over with a guilty smile and say, Do you need any help? I would bite back my irritation and shake my head, Ive got it.
The worst part was having to face the guests each timehair frazzled, apron on, no makeupwhile they were all immaculately dressed, as if they were attending a formal gala rather than a countryside house. I, too, would have liked to slip into a nice dress, do my hair, sit with a glass of wine, but there was never any time. I was the staff.
After those evenings Étienne would wash the mountain of dishes himself and tell me to go rest. I could see he was exhausted. He only had one day off a week, and it was ruined by childrens screams and endless chatter. He dreamed of relaxing, ordering a pizza, watching a film, but didnt want to upset his family. I said nothing eitheruntil his brother called one day.
Were celebrating my birthday at your place, as usual.
Étienne hung up, turned to me and announced:
Tomorrow you get up, put on your nicest dress, do your hair, and if you want, put on some makeup. We can even buy you something new. Butdont set foot in the kitchen. Not a toe. Understand?
How can I started.
Never mind. Let them bring their own food. Youre not a cook or a servant. We also deserve a break.
I nodded silently. It felt odd, but pleasant.
The next day the whole family arrived with smiles, cake boxes, meat in bags. Yet the table was empty. They exchanged puzzled lookswhere were the starters, the salads, the hostess? Étienne calmly stepped forward and declared:
New rules: if you want a party, you have to participate. My wife and I are tired. She doesnt have to serve you. Either each of you brings something, or you find another place for your celebration.
A hush fell. They ate, but the joy that used to fill the room was gone. Conversation struggled to start. The following time, for the first time in years, one of the sisters invited everyone to her home.
Apparently they could do itwhen they wanted to.
