My father-in-law never had much respect for women. Not even for his own wife. He acts like it’s still the 1950s, thinking women belong in the kitchen and laundry room. It all came to a head on my birthday when he threw his shirt at me, told me to iron it, and barked at me to make him a meal. Little did he know, I was about to teach him a lesson he’d never forget.
It was supposed to be a simple day. My first birthday as a married woman. Nothing big, just a few close friends and family, some food, laughter, and maybe a cake with a ridiculous number of candles. But things never go as planned with Richard around.
I was upstairs in the bathroom, trying to make myself look presentable. My half-curled hair was pinned up like some confused poodle, my eyeliner frozen mid-wing, and my robe was tied tight like I was preparing for a boxing match with my reflection. My hands shook as I tried, for the third time, to apply eyeliner. The stress of hosting my own birthday party made me feel like I’d been chugging espresso all morning, which, to be honest, wasn’t far from the truth.
“Just breathe, Judie,” I whispered to myself in the mirror. “You’ve got this. Everything’s under control.”
But then, without warning, the bedroom door swung open. Richard stood in the doorway, his weathered face set in its usual expression of mild disapproval.
“Hey!” he barked, tossing a button-up shirt at me. It landed with a soft thud on the vanity. “Iron this for me, will ya? And make me something to eat before everyone gets here. A sandwich will do.”
I froze, the makeup brush still in my hand. Here I was, in my bathrobe, hair half-done, and he was treating me like some maid he’d hired. I set my brush down slowly, my fingers trembling on the counter, feeling like the room was spinning around me.
“I’m kind of in the middle of getting ready, Richard. The party starts in an hour.”
“So? This’ll only take a few minutes. You’re good at this stuff, right?”
I blinked. “Good at what stuff, exactly?”
“You know,” he gestured vaguely at me, the house, everything around. “Woman stuff. Cooking, ironing, cleaning. Susie always had my shirts ready.”
My mother-in-law, Susie, who had finally divorced him after 30 years of exactly this kind of treatment.
“Is there a reason you can’t iron it yourself?” I asked, my voice calm but my mind boiling.
Richard snorted. “Because it’s a woman’s job!” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re a woman, aren’t you? It’s your job!”
I stared at him in disbelief. I’d spent an entire year biting my tongue around his casual sexism, putting up with his complaints about “women drivers” and his constant attempts to explain my own career to me. A year of him treating our house like his personal hotel whenever he visited. But today was different. Today was my birthday. My day. I wasn’t going to let him walk all over me.
“Sure, Richard!” I said, forcing a smile. “Give me 15 minutes.”
He nodded, satisfied, and wandered off to the living room, where I could hear the TV click on.
Nick appeared in the doorway a moment later, his eyes apologetic. “Was that my dad bothering you again?”
“Nothing I can’t handle! Actually, I think it’s time your father and I reached an understanding.”
“Oh no, Judie! What are you planning?”
I just smiled. “Go keep your dad company. I’ve got some ‘woman stuff’ to take care of.”
I grabbed the expensive dress shirt Richard had brought to “impress everyone” at my party. I set the iron to the highest heat and dragged it carelessly across the fabric. A scorched line appeared across the chest, and I lingered over the embroidered logo on the pocket, watching with satisfaction as the synthetic thread melted and puckered.
“Oops!” I whispered to myself with a wicked grin.
Then, I moved to the kitchen. I could already feel my stomach knotting with excitement. I opened the pantry and pulled out some of the weirdest ingredients I could find. Pickled sardines. Raw onions. Peanut butter. And some bread that was just stiff enough to be unpleasant.
I assembled what could technically be called a sandwich, though no one in their right mind would actually eat it. Sardines, onions, peanut butter… all on dry bread, with no mayo or mustard to soften the blow.
Just as I was finishing, the doorbell rang. Our first guests had arrived: my sister-in-law Molly and her husband Dan. I heard Nick greeting them, their voices mixing with Richard’s deeper tones.
Perfect timing!
I walked into the living room holding the plate in one hand and the mangled shirt in the other, looking every bit the picture of domestic servitude.
“Here you go, Richard,” I said sweetly, handing him the plate and shirt. “All ready!”
Richard barely glanced at me as he grabbed the shirt, already deep into a conversation with Dan about his latest golf game. But when he looked down at the sandwich, his face twisted like he’d just bitten into a lemon.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, lifting the bread to reveal the sardine-peanut butter monstrosity.
“Your sandwich! Is something wrong?” I asked innocently, though I was barely containing my laughter.
Richard’s gaze moved to the shirt in his hands. He unfolded it, his face going from pink to crimson as he saw the scorched line.
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!” he bellowed, and his voice froze the entire room.
Molly’s eyes went wide. Dan stopped mid-sip of his beer. And Nick, looking like he wanted to sink into the floor, stared at me in shock.
But I stayed calm, smiling sweetly. “I did exactly what you asked, Richard. I ironed your shirt and made you food.”
“You ruined my shirt! And this…” He shoved the plate at me, “is inedible!”
“Oh no! I tried my best. But I guess not all women are naturally good at ‘woman stuff’ after all,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
The room went silent. Richard’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
Then, Dan snorted, beer nearly coming out of his nose. Molly bit her lip, shaking with suppressed laughter.
Richard glared at me, his face turning purple. “You did this on purpose,” he accused, his voice trembling with rage.
“Did what? Follow your orders? Isn’t that what you wanted? Or maybe your whole ‘woman’s job’ thing is complete nonsense, and people should do their own damn ironing… especially when someone is busy getting ready for their birthday party.”
Richard’s face contorted, searching for someone to back him up. He found no allies.
“NICK??” he barked. “Are you going to let her talk to me like this?”
Nick, bless his heart, just shrugged. “Sounds like you had it coming, Dad.”
“Unbelievable! Your mother would never—”
“Leave Mom out of this,” Molly interrupted, no longer laughing. “She put up with your nonsense for 30 years. Don’t act surprised when Judie won’t do the same.”
Richard fell silent, looking for a way to defend himself but finding none. He turned to me, jabbing a finger in my direction. “You think you’re clever? You’ll regret this.”
“No, Richard. The only thing I regret is not doing this sooner. It’s my birthday, I’m hosting a party, and you waltz in here treating me like your personal maid. Not today. Not ever again.”
The doorbell rang again as more guests arrived. Richard looked around, seeing the united front everyone had put up against him. Without another word, he stormed off toward the guest bedroom, the ruined shirt balled in his fist.
Nick squeezed my hand. “That was simultaneously the most terrifying and impressive thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for someone to stand up to him since I was ten. Though maybe I should hide the good china before he comes back out.”
Molly laughed, pulling me into a hug. “That was amazing. Mom’s going to lose it when I tell her.”
Dan raised his beer. “Happy birthday to the woman who finally put Richard in his place.”
The party went on, filled with laughter and gift bags. I was in the kitchen setting out appetizers when Richard reappeared. He was wearing one of Nick’s old college shirts, looking like it was about to burst at the seams.
He hovered in the doorway, watching me as I arranged a cheese plate.
“Need something?” I asked without looking up.
“You humiliated me,” he grumbled.
“No, Richard. You humiliated yourself. Do you want to know why Susie left you? THIS. Exactly this… treating the women in your life like servants instead of equals.”
He scoffed. “We had traditional roles. Nothing wrong with that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with traditional roles if both people choose them. But you don’t get to force your ‘traditions’ on me, especially not in my own home.”
“So what now? You want me to leave?”
“No. What I want is for you to understand that I’m not your maid. I’m your daughter-in-law, and if you want a relationship with me and Nick, you need to show me some basic respect.”
Richard stared at the floor, his jaw working back and forth. For a moment, I thought he might actually apologize.
Instead, he grunted. “I need an iron. This shirt is wrinkled.”
I pointed to the laundry room. “Iron’s on the shelf. Knock yourself out.”
He hesitated, then gave a curt nod and disappeared into the laundry room. Ten minutes later, he emerged wearing a freshly pressed shirt—not perfect, but decent for someone who’d probably never ironed anything in his life.
Nick’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw his father. “Did you iron that yourself?”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Richard muttered.
The rest of the party went surprisingly smoothly. Richard kept to himself, nursing a beer in the corner and occasionally talking about sports or politics. He didn’t demand anything else from me and even cleared his own plate after dinner.
As the night wound down and guests began to leave, Molly cornered me in the kitchen.
“So, what kind of witch magic did you work on Dad? I’ve never seen him back down like that.”
I laughed. “No magic. Just boundaries.”
“Well, whatever it was, keep it up. Maybe there’s hope for the old dinosaur yet.”
After the guests were gone and Nick was showing Richard to the guest room, I started cleaning up the last of the party mess. My phone buzzed with a text from Susie: “Molly told me what happened. About time someone stood up to that man. Happy birthday, honey!”
I smiled at the message. Small victories. Big differences.
Nick came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Some birthday, huh?”
“Memorable, that’s for sure! Think he learned his lesson?”
“Hard to say. Dad’s pretty set in his ways. But I’ve never seen him iron his own shirt before, so that’s something.”
“You know what the best gift was tonight?”
“What’s that?”
“Finding my voice. I spent so long trying not to rock the boat with your dad that I forgot how good it feels to stand your ground.”
“Well, I’m proud of you. And a little terrified, but mostly proud!”
As we finished cleaning up and got ready for bed, I couldn’t help but smile thinking about Richard fumbling with the iron, his face scrunched in concentration as he tackled a “woman’s job” for possibly the first time in his 60 years.
Some people say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but sometimes all it takes is a ruined shirt, a disgusting sandwich, and the courage to say: ENOUGH. The next time Richard visits, he might still be the same old sexist grouch, but at least he’ll know one thing for certain: in this house, this woman doesn’t iron on command.
And that knowledge is worth every scorched thread.