My husband Thomas comes from a large, boisterous family—three brothers, two sisters, all settled with their own families, yet they descended upon our home with alarming regularity. Not just for tea, but for full-blown feasts. Birthdays, anniversaries, any excuse would do. And every time, it fell to us to host. “You’ve got the space,” they’d say, “a proper garden, parking—why not?” We’d worked hard, saved for years to buy that spacious countryside house, only for his family to treat it as their own personal retreat.
At first, I didn’t mind. Growing up an only child, I relished the warmth of a big family. Setting the table, grilling meat, sharing laughter—it felt like belonging. But over time, it became a burden. Have you ever cooked for fifteen people? Not once did anyone offer to help. The women would settle in the shade with their wine, the men would fuss over the barbecue, while I stood in the kitchen from dawn—chopping, frying, scrubbing. Carrying plates out, clearing them away. Only Thomas would pop in, guilt written across his face. “Need a hand?” he’d ask. I’d bite back irritation, shake my head. “I’ll manage.”
The worst part? Emerging disheveled, apron streaked, hair wild—while they lounged in their Sunday best, as if attending a grand ball rather than a country gathering. I wanted that too—to slip into a dress, pin up my hair, sip wine like the rest. But there was never time. I was staff.
After these marathons, Thomas would tackle the mountain of dishes, shooing me to bed. Exhaustion clung to him. His one day off spent dodging shrieking children and endless chatter. All he craved was peace—a pizza, a film, nothing more. Yet he bit his tongue, unwilling to stir trouble. So did I. Until his brother rang one evening.
“We’ll celebrate my birthday at yours, same as always.”
Thomas hung up, turned to me, and said, “Tomorrow, you wake up, put on your finest dress, fix your hair—makeup too, if you like. We’ll even buy you something new. But you don’t set foot in that kitchen. Not once.”
“But—”
“No. They bring their own. You’re not their cook or maid. We deserve to rest too.”
I nodded, uneasy yet relieved.
The next day, the yard swarmed with expectant faces, arms laden with cakes and meat. But the table stood bare. Eyes darted—where were the starters, the salads? Where was the hostess? Thomas stepped forward, calm.
“New rules. If you want a party, pitch in. We’re tired. My wife isn’t your servant. Either bring your own dishes, or find somewhere else.”
Silence. They ate, but the joy had vanished. Conversations faltered. Yet when the next occasion rolled around, his sister—for the first time in years—invited everyone to hers.
Turns out, they could manage. When they had to.
