My mother-in-law invited me over for two hours to help with her birthday party and expected me to salute and obey.
Her voice on the phone was positively honeyed:
Pop over, love, just lend a hand for a couple of hours. Nothing much.
Didnt suspect a thing. I thought, you know, a bit of chopping, maybe toss a salad, make a cuppa, job done. But as soon as I stepped into her kitchensaw the cauldrons, the recipe lists, and heard her say guestsll be here in four hoursI realised this wasnt a visit. It was a shift.
She loomed by the cooker, stirring what must have been a vat of soup, and turned round with a grin that suddenly didnt seem so friendly.
Oh, there you are! Smashing you could make it. Listenturns out therell be more guests than planned. About twenty, actually. We need to roast some fish, whip up three types of salad, roast meat, lay the table
I froze in the doorway, coat still on.
Twenty people? You said, just a couple of hours help
Yes, exactly, two hours! She waved it off like that was that. If there are two of us, well fly through it. Come on then, coat offaprons over there. Well start with the salads, then
Hold on, I put my bag down but kept my coat on. I thought I was coming for a quick job. Ive plans this evening.
She swung round, and her smile vanished.
What plans? This is your family. Thats your plan. Were getting ready for a birthday, and youre thinking of your own plans.
There it wasthe voice where my opinion dissolves and Im supposed to nod and say yes, Mum.
Id have been more than happy to help if youd told me ahead of time. But you said something completely different.
Oh, Im ever so sorry I didnt spell out every last detail! She snapped back to the stove. I assumed you realise birthdays mean proper preparation. Or did you think I was going to run round at my age by myself?
I bit my lip. I knew this game: guilt, pressure, just a sprinkle of accusation.
You couldve asked someone else. Or at the very least, warned me.
She turned suddenly.
Why on earth would I ask others when Ive got a daughter-in-law? Or have you forgotten what family means?
Meanwhile, my husband was sitting in the front room on his phone. The TV blaring away. He knew what was going on but, miraculously, didnt intervene.
Im not saying I wont help, I told her, but you misled me. Thats not really fair, is it?
Misled! She threw her arms up in theatrical disbelief. Did you hear? Apparently, I misled her! Asked her for help, and now shes making a scene. Thats todays youth for youthink everything is owed to them and not a drop of conscience.
I shrank inside. If I walked outmajor scandal. If I stayedId spend the day slicing, carrying, and weathering snide remarks.
Alright, I said, exhaling hard, Ill help prep the salads. But Im not hosting or waiting on anyone.
She was affronted.
So Im expected to run about with platters on my own?
Im just saying, you couldve arranged things differently. Maybe even asked your son.
Hes a man! she squawked. The kitchens not his place; he has his own role.
Oh? Sitting with his phone?
Thats none of your business! Her voice was sharp now. Are you here to help or to give a lecture?
I sighed, slipped off my coat, put on the apron, and began chopping cucumbers. She gave a satisfied little nod and returned to her soup pot.
After a while, she spoke again:
When the guests arrive, youll change into something smart, wont you?
No, Ill finish helping and pop off.
She set down her ladle.
What do you mean, leave? Whos supposed to greet the guests? Whos going to serve them?
You. Or your son.
Hell be entertaining them. Hes the host.
A host whod never so much as lifted a plate in his life.
So, men do the entertaining and women scurry about picking up after everyone?
How else? She narrowed her eyes. Are you a feminist now?
I just dont get why I have to be the unpaid staff.
UNPAID?! She nearly shrieked. Youre my daughter-in-law! Were family! Or have you forgotten who helped you with that flat of yours?
Ah, the trump card. The money we paid back ages ago, but, according to her, remained an eternal IOU.
We returned that loan, I said calmly.
And what about the moral debt? Being grateful?
I put the knife down.
So, youd like me to feel in your debt for life?
Id like you to behave like family. Not a hired help.
Thats exactly how youre treating mejust no pay envelope.
She slapped her tea towel on the counter.
FINE! Do what you wish, but youre not leaving until youve set the table!
I looked at her and, suddenly, the penny dropped: no matter how much I give, nothing will ever be enough.
No, I said quietly. Im not.
What did you say?
I said no. Im leaving.
Off came the apron. I grabbed my bag, put on my coat.
You wouldnt dare! Her voice was trembling.
My husband finally emerged.
Whats going on?
Shes leaving! she jabbed a finger at me.
Whats happening? he asked.
Maybe ask your mum why she invited me for two hours when she expects me to cater for a football team.
But she said it was just a little help
Help means normal help, she chimed in. Not fiddling with a salad for half an hour!
This keeps happening, I pointed out. And every time, you guilt-trip me about the money.
Just bloody help! he waved his hand.
And you? Why arent you chopping? Why arent you setting the table?
Thats not mens work.
I laugheda little hystericallyfrom exhaustion and frustration.
Fine. Crack on without me, then.
I headed for the door.
If you walk out, dont ever bother coming back! she shrieked.
Alright!
And out I went.
In my car, my hands shook. My phone rang off the hook. I didnt answer.
Later, a text pinged in:
Come back at once.
I replied:
Im not your unpaid skivvy.
That evening, I sat at home with a cuppa, couldnt care less what they said about me.
My husband came in late.
Happy now? Everyone thinks poorly of you.
And what do you think? I asked.
He fell silent.
You were meant to stand by me, I said. You didnt.
Silence.
No one called for two weeks. It taught me something:
Sometimes leaving matters more than sticking around.
Even when theyre yelling behind your back that youre wrong.
