You know what happened last Sunday at my in-laws’? Absolutely wild. So, my mother-in-law, Margaret, popped out to the garden for a second, and my father-in-law, Bernard, turns to me and barks, “Emma, go and warm up that chicken—it’s gone cold!” I just froze. Seriously? Am I the hired help now? I was this close to snapping, “Do it yourself, mate,” but instead, stroking their tabby, Whiskers, who was weaving round my legs, I said, “Bernard, I’m not your maid. Warm it up yourself.” The look he gave me—like I’d just declared war. And honestly? My blood was boiling. This wasn’t about chicken. It was a line I wasn’t crossing.
Tom—my husband—and I live separately, but every Sunday, we do dinner at his parents’. Margaret’s cooking is proper hearty—roasts, shepherd’s pie, you name it—and I love going. It’s all chat and seconds and her legendary beef Wellington. Bernard’s usually quiet, sat at the head of the table like some sort of colonel, grumbling more than talking. I’ve put up with his little demands—”pass the gravy,” “clear the plates”—figuring, *Ah, he’s old-school, whatever*. But this time? It was too much.
That night, we’re having roast chicken and mash. Margaret’s fussing, topping up our plates, and I’m helping clear up. She nips out to the patio to fetch the trifle, and Bernard seizes his moment. I’m sat there, giving Whiskers a scratch—he’s purring away on my lap—when Bernard drops his bombshell: “Warm the chicken!” For a second, I thought I’d misheard. He’s staring at me like I’m meant to leap up and dash to the microwave. Meanwhile, I’m in my Sunday best, knackered after work, here as a guest—not staff.
My reply clearly threw him. He scowled, muttering something like, “Kids these days—no respect.” *Respect?* Where’s *my* respect? I’ll lend a hand, sure, but that wasn’t a ask—it was an order, like I’m some skivvy. Margaret comes back, senses the tension, and goes, “Everything alright?” I was about to explain, but Bernard cuts in: “Oh, it’s nothing. Emma just won’t help an old man.” *Help?* Since when is microwaving chicken a heroic act? I bit my tongue, only saying, “Margaret, I’m happy to help, but I’m not your maid.”
On the drive home, I told Tom. Typical, he plays peacemaker: “Em, Dad doesn’t mean it—he’s just used to Mum doing everything. Don’t let it bother you.” *Don’t let it bother me?* Easy for him—he’s not the one getting bossed about! I made it clear: I’ll pitch in, but Bernard’s tone was way off. Tom promised to talk to him, but we both know he avoids drama. “I’ll tell Mum—she’ll sort him,” he added. Margaret *might* rein him in (she’s always got my back), but I don’t want family rows over this.
Now I’m torn. Part of me wants to sit on my hands next time—let Bernard nuke his own bloody chicken. But that’s petty, and Margaret doesn’t deserve the fallout. Another part wants to say straight: “Bernard, I respect you, but I’m not your servant. Mutual respect—yes?” But I reckon he’d take it as cheek, and boom: World War Three. My mate Liz said, “Just joke it off—tell him the microwave’s his to conquer.” *Joke?* Maybe. Right now, I’m too cross.
Funny—Bernard wasn’t always like this. When Tom and I first married, he’d compliment my puddings, tell bawdy army stories. Now? It’s like he’s decided I’m on standby, just like Margaret. But I’m *not* her. I’ve got my own job, my own life, and I’m there as family—not staff. I love them, but I won’t take orders. Maybe it’s his age, maybe habit—but I’m not being talked down to, not even for peace.
For now, I’ll stay polite but firm. Next time Bernard pulls rank? A smile, and: “The microwave’s over there—knock yourself out.” Or better yet, I’ll chat with Margaret. She’ll get it. No dramas—but no silence either. Their house, their rules—but I’m *not* their employee. And that chicken? He can heat it himself. I’ll stick to petting Whiskers. At least *he* gets me.
