My mother-in-law rang, her voice syrupy as treacle:
Just pop over, darling, lend us a hand, itll only be for two hours.
I didnt sense the snareimagined a bit of chopping, tossing a salad, brewing a pot of tea.
But when I stepped into the kitchen and saw bubbling cauldrons, towers of pans, endless lists of dishes, and heard, The guests will be here in four hours,
I realised: I hadnt been invited as a guest,
Id been summoned for a shift.
There she stood by the cooker, stirring a vast pot, the corners of her smile sharpened by some secret amusement.
Ah, there you are! Wonderful, you made it.
Listen, turns out therell be more people than planned. About twenty, Id say.
We need to roast the salmon, prepare three types of salad, roast beef, set the table
I froze on the doorstep, still swaddled in my coat.
Twenty people? You said it would just be a couple of hours
Yes, precisely, a couple of hours! She waved her hand dismissively, as though shutting a window on the subject.
With two of us, itll fly by. Go on, get your coat off, aprons there. Well start with the salads, then
Wait, I set my bag down, but clung to my coat. I thought this was just something simple. I have plans this evening.
She rotated to face me, eyes cold as granite under winter skies.
What plans? Your family is your plan.
Were preparing for a jubilee here, and youre thinking of personal things.
There was that tonethe one that erased my opinion,
the one that expected nothing but supplication.
Id have helped willingly, had you told me the full story.
But you said something different.
Sorry I didnt spell out every detail!
She turned back to the pot. I thought youd realise a big birthday means lots to cook.
Or should I be slaving away alone, at my age?
I pressed my lips together. I recognised the trick: guilt, pressure, accusation.
You could have asked others. Or at least warned me.
She whipped around.
Why ask others when I have a daughter-in-law? Or have you forgotten the meaning of family?
Meanwhile, my husband sat in the lounge with his phone. The muffled chatter of the television filled the space. He heard, but didnt interfere.
Im not refusing to help, I said gently. But you misled me. Thats unfair.
Misled! She flung out her arms, as on some invisible stage.
You hear her? I misled her! Asked for a bit of help, and she puts on a scene.
Theres todays youth for youthink the world owes them, no conscience at all.
Something curled up and shrank inside me. If I left nowthered be uproar.
If I stayed, Id be slicing, hauling, absorbing sharp words.
All right, I breathed in slowly. Ill help with the salads.
But Im not staying to greet or serve guests.
Her shoulders tensed.
So Im supposed to run around with the trays on my own?
I mean, there are other ways you could have organised things.
You could ask your son.
Hes a man! she snapped. The kitchens not his place. He has other duties!
And what duties are those? Scrolling on his phone?
Thats none of your business! Her voice rang out brittle and high.
Are you here to help or to lecture?
Resigned, I slid out of my coat and knotted the pinny around my waist. I began chopping cucumbers and tomatoes, knives flashing with numb automation.
She nodded with satisfaction and returned to her ladle.
Later, she said,
Youll change before the guests arrive, wont you?
I wont be staying. Ill help, then Im off.
She set her ladle down.
What do you mean, leaving? Wholl welcome the guests and serve the table?
You. Or your son.
Hell be entertaining them. Hes the host.
The host who had never so much as carried a plate in his life.
So the men entertain, and the women wait on them?
How else would it be? Her eyes narrowed. Turned feminist on us, have you?
I just dont understand why Im expected to be unpaid help.
UNPAID?! she bellowed. Youre family! Or have you forgotten who helped you with your home?
There it wasthe trump card. The money wed paid back ages ago, but in her mind, the debt was endless.
We repaid you, I replied, steady.
And what about gratitude, and good old-fashioned decency?
I put the knife down.
Am I supposed to feel beholden for the rest of my life?
I just want you to act with some manners. Like a member of the family, not a hired hand.
But thats exactly how you treat meexcept you dont pay me.
She hurled a tea towel at the counter.
DO WHAT YOU LIKEbut dont you dare leave until youve laid the table!
I looked at her, and suddenly it came clear: however much I gave up, nothing would ever shift.
No, I said quietly. I wont.
What did you say?
I repeated: No. Im leaving.
I stripped off the apron, grabbed my bag, returned my arms to the comforting cave of my coat.
You wouldnt dare! Her voice trembled on the brink of tears or rage.
My husband appeared in the hallway.
Whats going on?
Shes leaving! her finger stabbed the air at me.
What are you doing? he asked.
Ask your mother why just two hours means working for twenty people.
She said it was just a little bit
Helping means helping, not being a scullery maid for hours! she cut him off.
This keeps happening, I said. And every time, theres the money thrown back at me.
Just help, he waved it off.
And what about you? Why dont you chop or set the table?
Thats not a mans job.
A laugh escaped mehollow with fatigue, scraping the ribs.
Fine. Manage it yourselves.
I moved towards the front door.
If you leave, dont ever come back! she shrieked.
All right.
And out I went.
My hands trembled on the steering wheel as I sat in the car. The phone vibrated, buzzing on and on, unanswered.
Later, a message blinked onto the screen:
Come back right now.
I replied:
I am not your unpaid servant.
That night I sat at home with a mug of tea in my lap.
I didnt care what they said about me.
My husband returned late.
Are you satisfied? he asked. They all think terribly of you.
And you? What do you think?
He said nothing.
You were supposed to stand by me, I said. But you didnt.
Then silence grew between us.
For two weeks, there was nothingno calls, no messages.
And I understood at last:
sometimes walking away matters more than remaining
Even if, behind your back, they shout that youre wrong.
