“You’re Not a Chef or a Servant”: How a Husband Set an Ultimatum for His Family and Everything Changed
My husband, Oliver, comes from a large, boisterous familythree brothers, two sisters. Theyd all settled into their own homes long ago, complete with spouses and kids. Yet, without fail, theyd descend upon *our* house. Not just for a quick cuppa, mind you, but for full-blown feasts. There was always an excuse: a birthday, a bank holiday, an anniversary. And every time, it was at ours. Because, as they put it, “Your place is just *so* convenientbig house, lovely garden.” True, wed scraped together our savings for years to buy that spacious home on the outskirts of Manchester. But the moment we had a patio, a barbecue, a patch of lawn, and a driveway, the family collectively decided it was now their “weekend retreat.”
At first, I didnt mind. Growing up an only child, I was oddly charmed by the chaos of a big family. Wed set the table, grill burgers, share a laugh. But soon it became a nightmare. Ever tried cooking for fifteen-odd people? And not once did anyone *ask* if they could help. The women would plant themselves in the shade with a glass of Pinot, the men would vanish to “supervise” the grill. Meanwhile, Id be up at dawn, chopping, frying, scrubbing, peelingplaying hostess, waiter, and dishwasher all at once. Only Oliver would pop his head in, grinning sheepishly: “Need a hand?” Biting back my frustration, Id mutter, “Ive got it”
The worst part? By the time guests arrived, Id look like Id been dragged through a hedgeapron on, hair wild, makeup nonexistent. Meanwhile, theyd show up looking *Sharpened to a T*, as if heading to a garden party at Buckingham Palace. Id have loved to slip into a nice dress, fix my hair, actually *enjoy* my own wine. But noI was the unpaid catering staff.
After these marathons, Oliver would tackle the Everest of dishes and shoo me off to bed. Exhausted himself, mind youhis one day off, wasted on shrieking nieces and endless small talk. All hed wanted was a pizza and a film. But he hated rocking the boat. So I kept quiet too until his brother rang one day.
“Were doing my birthday at yours, yeah? Same as always.”
Oliver hung up, turned to me, and dropped the bomb:
“Tomorrow, you wake up, put on that dress you love, do your hairheck, treat yourself to something new if you fancy. But you *do not* step foot in that kitchen. Not even a toe. Understood?”
“But what about” I started.
“Nope. They can bring their own food. Youre not their chef or maid. We deserve a break too.”
I nodded, stunned but weirdly thrilled.
Next day, the clan arrived all smiles, bearing cake tins and Tesco bags of meat. But the table? Empty. They exchanged baffled glanceswhere were the starters? The salads? Where was their usual one-woman buffet? Calm as you like, Oliver strolled out and declared:
“New rules. If you want a party, pitch in. My wife and I are knackered. Shes not your waitstaff. Either bring a dish, or take the shindig elsewhere.”
Silence. They ate, but the cheer was goneconversation limped along. Yet lo and behold, the next gathering? For the first time in years, his sister volunteered *her* house.
Turns out, they *could* manage it. When they *had* to.
