I’m Not the Butler for My Father-in-Law
When my mother-in-law, Margaret, stepped out of the kitchen for just a moment, my father-in-law, William, turned to me and barked, “Emily, go and warm up that chicken—it’s gone cold!” I froze, hardly believing my ears. Was I suddenly the hired help? If you want it warmed up, do it yourself, I wanted to snap, but instead, stroking the cat weaving around my ankles, I replied, “William, I’m not your servant. Warm it up yourself.” He stared at me like I’d committed treason, while inside, my blood boiled. This wasn’t just about chicken—it was a line I refused to cross.
My husband, James, and I live on our own, but every Sunday, we visit his parents for dinner. Margaret cooks like a dream, and I’m always happy to come—chatting, savoring her famous shepherd’s pie, listening to her stories. William usually sits at the head of the table like a disgruntled general, grumbling more than speaking. I’d grown used to his orders—”pass the salt,” “clear the plates”—but I brushed it off. Old habits, I thought. But this time, he’d gone too far.
That evening, we were eating roast chicken and potatoes. Margaret bustled about, refilling plates, while I helped clear the table. When she stepped out to fetch the trifle, William seized his moment. I sat there, absently petting their tabby, Tom, purring in my lap, when he dropped his command: “Warm up the chicken!” At first, I thought I’d misheard. He glared as if I were duty-bound to leap up and sprint to the microwave. Meanwhile, I’d come straight from work, exhausted, in my Sunday dress—a guest, not a scullery maid.
My reply clearly stunned him. He scowled, muttering something about “kids these days, no respect.” Respect? Where was his respect for *me*? I don’t mind helping, but this wasn’t a request—it was a barked order, like I was some errand girl. Margaret returned, sensing tension, and asked, “What’s happened?” I wanted to explain, but William cut in: “Nothing. Emily just won’t lift a finger for an old man.” *Lift a finger*? Since when is microwaving chicken a heroic act? I bit back my anger and simply said, “Margaret, I’m happy to help, but I’m not the help.”
On the drive home, I told James. As usual, he downplayed it: “Em, Dad doesn’t mean harm—he’s just used to Mum doing everything. Don’t take it to heart.” *Don’t take it to heart*? Easy for him—he isn’t the one getting ordered about. I reminded him I’d happily help if William hadn’t spoken to me like a parlourmaid. James promised to talk to his father, but I know he avoids conflict. “I’ll tell Mum—she’ll set him straight,” he added. Margaret might, true. She always stands up for me. But I won’t stir trouble between them.
Now I’m left wondering how to handle this. Part of me wants to sit stubbornly idle next time—let William warm his own blasted chicken. But that’s childish, and I won’t punish Margaret for his rudeness. Another part wants to confront him: “William, I respect you, but I’m not your servant. Let’s treat each other properly.” But I fear he’ll take it as impertinence, and the drama will spiral. My friend suggested a joke in response: “Tell him the microwave’s waiting for him.” A joke? Maybe humor’s the answer, but right now, I’m too furious.
I remember when William was kinder. Back when James and I first married, he’d even praised my roasties, swapping tales of his youth. Now? He seems to expect me to jump like Margaret does. But I’m not her. I’ve my own job, my own life, and I visit as family—not staff. I love them, but I won’t tolerate commands. Maybe it’s age, maybe habit—but I won’t be demeaned, not even for peace.
For now, I’ll stay steady: polite but firm. Next time William barks an order, I’ll smile and say, “The microwave’s in the corner.” And if it comes to it, I’ll talk to Margaret—she’ll understand. I don’t want rows, but I won’t stay silent. Their home is theirs—but I’m not their property. Let him warm his own chicken. I’d rather pet Tom. He’s the only one in that kitchen who gets me.
