**Diary Entry**
I’m not his maid.
When my mother-in-law, Margaret, stepped out of the kitchen for a moment, my father-in-law, Edward, turned to me and barked, “Emily, go and warm up that chicken—it’s gone cold!” I froze, barely believing my ears. Since when am I the hired help? If you want it done, do it yourself, I wanted to snap. Instead, stroking their tabby cat, Oliver, who wound around my ankles, I replied, “Edward, I’m not your servant—heat it up yourself.” He glared as if I’d committed treason, while my blood boiled. This wasn’t about chicken—it was a line I refused to cross.
James and I live separately, but every Sunday we visit his parents for dinner. Margaret cooks like a dream, and I happily go—chatting over her shepherd’s pie, listening to old stories. Edward usually broods at the head of the table like a retired colonel, grumbling more than speaking. I’ve grown used to his demands—”pass the salt,” “clear the plates”—but brushed it off as old habits. Until today.
That evening, we sat around roast chicken and potatoes. Margaret bustled, refilling plates while I helped clear the table. When she slipped out to fetch the trifle, Edward seized his moment. I was absentmindedly petting Oliver, purring in my lap, when he ordered, “Warm up the chicken!” For a second, I thought I’d misheard. He stared at me like I was meant to jump to the microwave. Meanwhile, I’d come straight from work, exhausted, wearing my favourite sundress—a guest, not a skivvy.
My reply clearly stunned him. He scowled, muttering, “No respect these days.” Respect? What about respect for *me*? I’ll help gladly—but that wasn’t a request. It was a command, as if I were there to take orders. Margaret returned, sensing tension, and asked, “What’s wrong?” I opened my mouth, but Edward cut in: “Nothing. Emily just won’t lift a finger for an old man.” *Lift a finger*? Since when is reheating chicken a heroic act? Biting back anger, I said, “Margaret, I’m happy to help, but I’m *not* a servant.”
In the car, I told James. He tried smoothing things over: “Love, Dad doesn’t mean harm—he’s just used to Mum doing everything. Don’t take it to heart.” Easy for *him*—he isn’t being bossed about! I reminded him I don’t mind helping, but Edward’s tone made me feel like hired staff. James promised to talk to him, though he hates confrontation. “I’ll tell Mum—she’ll sort him,” he added. Margaret might reason with him—she often sticks up for me—but I won’t stir drama.
Now I’m torn. Part of me wants next Sunday to sit idle—let Edward microwave his own damned chicken. But that’s petty, and I’d hate to upset Margaret. Another part wants to say outright, “Edward, I respect you, but I’m not your housekeeper—let’s treat each other politely.” Yet I fear he’ll take it as insolence. My friend suggested deflecting with humour—”The microwave’s right there, Edward”—but right now, I’m too furious to laugh.
I remember when Edward was kinder. When James and I first married, he’d praise my roast potatoes, share tales of his Army days. Now? He acts like I’m there to fetch and carry. But I’ve my own job, my own life—I’m a guest, not staff. I love his family, but I won’t tolerate orders. Whether it’s age or habit, I won’t be belittled—not even for peace.
For now, I’ll stay polite but firm. Next time he barks, I’ll smile and say, “The microwave’s waiting, Edward.” If it persists, I’ll talk to Margaret—she’ll understand. I won’t start rows, but I won’t stay silent either. Their house, their rules—but *I’m* not their property. Let him warm his own chicken. I’ll stick to petting Oliver—the only one in that kitchen who *truly* gets me.
