“You’re Neither a Cook Nor a Maid”: How a Husband Set an Ultimatum and Everything Changed
My husband Oliver comes from a large, boisterous familythree brothers, two sisters. All had their own homes, kids, and partners, yet theyd inevitably turn up at ours. Not just for a quick cuppa, but for full-blown feasts. There was always an excuse: a birthday, a celebration, an anniversary. And every time, it was at our place. Because, as they put it, “Yours is so convenientbig house, lovely garden.” Wed worked hard for years to buy that spacious home on the outskirts of Manchester, and the moment we had a patio, a barbecue, a patch of lawn, and a parking space, the family decided it was their “holiday retreat.”
At first, I didnt mind. Id grown up an only child, so being part of a big family felt nice. Wed set the table, grill sausages, laugh together. But soon it became a nightmare. Ever cooked for fifteen people? Not one of them ever offered to help. The women would settle in the shade with a glass of wine, the men would head straight for the barbecue. Meanwhile, Id be in the kitchen at dawnchopping, frying, washing, peeling. Serving plates, clearing up. Oliver would poke his head in now and then, grinning sheepishly: “Need a hand?” Biting back my frustration, Id mutter, “Ive got it”
But the worst part? Facing the guestshair a mess, apron on, no makeupwhile they all turned up looking like they were off to a garden party, not a casual get-together. Id have loved to slip into a nice dress, fix my hair, sip a drink. But no time. I was the help.
After these gatherings, Oliver would tackle the mountain of washing-up and shoo me off to rest. I could see how knackered he was. His one day off a week, ruined by shrieking kids and endless chatter. All he wanted was to order a takeaway and watch a movie. But he hated rocking the boat. So I kept quiet toountil his brother rang one day.
“Were celebrating my birthday at yours, same as usual.”
Oliver hung up, turned to me, and said:
“Tomorrow, you wake up, put on your best dress, do your hair, wear makeup if you fancy. Hell, well even buy you something new. Butyou dont set foot in that kitchen. Not a toe. Got it?”
“But how” I started.
“No. They bring their own food. Youre not their cook or maid. We deserve a break too.”
I nodded, silent. It felt strangebut good.
The next day, the whole clan rolled up. Smiles, cake tins, meat in bags. But the table? Empty. They exchanged confused glanceswhere were the starters, the salads, where was the hostess? Then Oliver stepped forward, calm as you like, and said:
“New rules. If you want a party, pitch in. My wife and I are tired. Shes not your waitress. Either everyone brings a dish, or you find somewhere else.”
Dead silence. They ate, but the usual cheer was gone. Conversations limped along. And the next time? For the first time in years, one of his sisters actually hosted.
Turns out, they could manage itwhen they wanted to.
