The moment my mother-in-law, Margaret, stepped out of the kitchen, my father-in-law, Richard, turned to me and barked, “Emily, go warm up that chicken—it’s gone cold!” I froze, staring at him in disbelief. Was I suddenly the hired help? If you want it done, do it yourself, I wanted to snap. Instead, stroking the cat rubbing against my legs, I replied, “Richard, I’m not your maid. Warm it up yourself.” His eyes narrowed, as if I’d committed treason, while my blood boiled. This wasn’t about chicken—it was a line I refused to cross.
We live separately from Richard and Margaret, but every Sunday, my husband James and I drive over for dinner. Margaret cooks like a dream, and I always look forward to her stories and her famous shepherd’s pie. Richard usually sits in silence at the head of the table, grumbling more than speaking, barking orders like a drill sergeant—”Pass the salt,” “Clear the plates.” I’d brushed it off—old habits die hard. But this time, he’d gone too far.
That evening, we were eating roast chicken with potatoes. Margaret bustled about, refilling plates while I helped clear the table. When she slipped out to fetch dessert, Richard seized his moment. I was petting their tabby, Whiskers, curled in my lap, purring softly—until his voice cut through. “Warm the chicken!” I almost laughed. Was he serious? He glared, expecting me to jump like some scullery maid. Meanwhile, I’d come straight from work, exhausted, in my Sunday dress—a guest, not a servant.
My reply stunned him. He scowled, muttering, “No respect these days.” Respect? What about respect for *me*? I’d gladly help if asked, but this was a command, like I was there to take orders. Margaret returned, sensing tension. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Richard beat me to it. “Nothing. Emily just won’t lift a finger for an old man.” *Lift a finger*? Warming chicken isn’t a heroic act. Clenching my fists, I said, “Margaret, I’m happy to help—but I’m not your maid.”
In the car, I told James. Ever the peacekeeper, he sighed. “Dad doesn’t mean harm, love. He’s just set in his ways.” Easy for *him*—he wasn’t being ordered about. I shot back that I’d help if spoken to politely, not treated like staff. James promised to talk to him, but he hates conflict. “Mum will smooth it over,” he added. Margaret would, true—but I refuse to be the reason for family strife.
Now, I’m torn. Part of me wants to sit idle next time—let Richard fend for himself. But that’s childish, and Margaret doesn’t deserve that. Another part wants to confront him: “Richard, I respect you, but I won’t be spoken to like a servant.” Yet I fear he’d take it as insolence, sparking drama. My friend suggested joking it off—”The microwave’s right there, Richard.” But I’m too furious for jokes.
I remember when Richard was kinder. Early in our marriage, he’d praise my roast dinners, share tales of his youth. Now, he treats me like an extension of Margaret—but I’m not her. I’ve my own job, my own life. I visit as family, not staff. I won’t be degraded—not even for peace.
For now, I’ll stay polite but firm. Next time he barks orders, I’ll smile and say, “The microwave’s waiting.” Or better yet, I’ll talk to Margaret. She’ll understand. 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.
