When my mother-in-law, Margaret, stepped out of the kitchen for just a moment, my father-in-law, Edward, turned to me and barked, “Annie, go and warm up that chicken—it’s gone cold!” I froze, barely believing my ears. Was I suddenly the hired help? If you want it done, do it yourself, I wanted to snap. But instead, stroking their tabby cat, Whiskers, who wound around my ankles, I said, “Edward, I’m not your maid. Heat it up yourself.” He stared at me like I’d staged a mutiny while my blood boiled. This wasn’t just about chicken—it was a line I wouldn’t cross.
My husband, Oliver, and I live separately, but every Sunday we visit his parents for supper. Margaret cooks like a dream—her shepherd’s pie is divine—and I’m always happy to come, to chat, to listen to their stories. Edward usually broods at the head of the table like some retired colonel, grumbling more than speaking. I’d grown used to his little demands: “Pass the salt,” “Clear the plates.” I brushed it off—old habits die hard. But this time, he’d gone too far.
That evening, we sat eating roast chicken and potatoes. Margaret bustled about, piling seconds onto our plates while I helped tidy up. When she slipped out to fetch the trifle from the pantry, Edward saw his moment. I sat stroking Whiskers, purring in my lap, when his order cut through: “Warm the chicken!” At first, I thought I’d misheard. He looked at me like I was meant to leap up and dash to the microwave. As if I hadn’t just come straight from work, exhausted, in my Sunday dress—here as a guest, not a scullery maid.
My reply clearly shocked him. He frowned, muttering something about “young people these days, 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 fetch and carry. Margaret returned, sensing tension. “What’s happened?” she asked. I opened my mouth, but Edward cut in: “Nothing. Annie just won’t lift a finger for an old man.” Lift a finger? Since when was reheating chicken a heroic feat? I bit back my anger, only saying, “Margaret, I’m happy to help, but I’m not the hired help.”
On the drive home, I told Oliver. Ever the peacemaker, he shrugged it off: “Annie, Dad doesn’t mean harm—he’s just set in his ways. Don’t take it to heart.” Don’t take it to heart? Easy for him—he’s not the one being ordered about like a servant! I reminded him I don’t mind pitching in, but Edward’s tone made me feel like a housemaid. Oliver promised to speak to him, though I know he hates conflict. “I’ll tell Mum—she’ll sort him,” he added. Margaret might scold him—she always defends me—but I won’t stir up trouble over chicken.
Now, I’m left wondering what to do. Part of me wants to sit idle next time—let Edward reheat his own blasted meal. But that’s childish, and I won’t punish Margaret for his rudeness. Another part wants to say it plainly—”Edward, I respect you, but I’m not your servant. Let’s treat each other decently.” But he’d take it as impertinence, and the drama would spiral. My friend Beth suggested a joke: “The microwave’s calling your name.” A joke? Maybe humour’s the answer, but I’m still too furious.
I remember when Edward was kinder. Back when Oliver and I first married, he praised my roast potatoes, told tales of his rugby days. Now, it’s like he expects me to be at his beck and call, another Margaret. But I’m not her! I’ve my own job, my own life—I’m a guest, not staff. I love his family, but I won’t be bossed about. 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 Edward barks, I’ll smile and say, “The microwave’s right there.” And if it comes to it, I’ll talk to Margaret—she’ll understand. I don’t want rows, but I won’t stay silent. Their house, their rules—but I’m not their property. Let him warm his own chicken. I’ll stick to petting Whiskers—the only one in that kitchen who gets me.
