On my first birthday as a married woman, my father-in-law, Richard, treated me like his personal maid, demanding I iron his shirt and cook for him. His outdated belief that women belong in the kitchen pushed me too far, so I gave him a taste of his own medicine and a lesson in respect that made my day unforgettable.
I’m Judie, and my birthday was supposed to be simple—friends, family, and a fun party at home. I was upstairs, half-ready, with tangled curls and shaky hands from hosting stress. “Calm down,” I told my reflection, adjusting my robe. Then Richard, my husband Nick’s dad, walked in without knocking. “Iron this shirt,” he said, tossing it at me. “And make me a sandwich. I’m hungry.” I stared, makeup smudged, the party an hour away.
“I’m busy getting ready,” I said. He waved me off. “It’s quick. You’re good at women’s stuff—cooking, ironing. Susie always did it.” Susie, his ex-wife, left after years of his demands. “Can’t you iron it?” I asked. He scoffed. “That’s a woman’s job!” I’d tolerated his sexist comments for Nick’s sake, but this was my day. I wasn’t playing along.
“Fifteen minutes,” I said, forcing a smile. He left for the TV. Nick popped in. “Dad bugging you?” he asked. “I’ve got this,” I replied, grinning. I took Richard’s prized shirt, meant to show off, and dragged the iron across it, leaving a burnt streak. In the kitchen, I made a sandwich of sardines, onions, and peanut butter on old bread—a gag-worthy mess.
Guests arrived—Nick’s sister Molly and her husband Dan—chatting with Richard. I walked in with the scorched shirt and nasty sandwich. “All set, Richard,” I said brightly. He grabbed the shirt, then recoiled at the sandwich. “What’s this?” he yelled, spotting the shirt’s damage. “You ruined it!” Everyone froze. Molly gaped, Dan snorted, and Nick cringed.
“I did what you asked,” I said coolly. “I ironed and cooked. Guess I’m not cut out for ‘women’s work.’” Dan laughed, and Molly hid a smile. Richard glared. “This was on purpose!” I nodded. “You think this is my job? Try doing your own chores, especially on my birthday.” He looked to Nick. “You allow this?” Nick shrugged. “You earned it, Dad.”
Molly spoke up. “Mom dealt with this for decades. Judie’s not her.” Richard jabbed a finger at me. “You’ll pay for this.” I stood tall. “No, I’m done letting you treat me like a servant. It’s my party, my rules.” He stormed off as more guests arrived. Nick grabbed my hand. “That was bold—and a bit terrifying.” Molly hugged me. “Mom’s going to flip when she hears.” Dan raised his glass. “To Judie, Richard’s new teacher!”
Later, Richard returned in Nick’s tight old shirt, ironed by him. I was setting out food when he approached. “You shamed me,” he said. “You shamed yourself,” I replied. “Susie left because you treated her like staff. I’m your daughter-in-law, not your maid. Want a relationship with us? Show respect.” He muttered, then asked for the iron. “In the laundry room,” I said. He came back with a passable shirt. Nick was shocked. “Dad ironed?” Richard grumbled, “Don’t start.”
He stayed quiet, even cleaning his plate. As we cleaned up, Molly whispered, “How’d you tame him?” I smiled. “Just set boundaries.” Susie texted: “You showed him! Happy birthday!” Nick hugged me. “You owned tonight.” I grinned, picturing Richard’s ironing struggle. My birthday became the day I stood up, proving respect isn’t optional in our home.
