I should’ve known something was wrong the moment Diane handed me that laminated sheet.
We had barely stepped into the beach house, the salty air still clinging to my skin from the walk up the dunes, when she patted my arm and gave me a smile that was just a little too sweet.
“Tess, honey, I made this to keep things running smoothly.”
At first, I smiled back, thinking it was something useful—maybe the Wi-Fi password or a list of nearby restaurants. But the moment I looked at it, my stomach dropped.
It wasn’t a welcome packet.
It was a chore chart.
Color-coded. Neatly broken down by day and task.
And my name? Oh, it showed up way more than anyone else’s.
“Tess: meal prep, dinner planning, clean-up, grocery coordination (there’s a local supermarket), laundry, and ironing.”
Diane? Listed once. For “help with sunscreen application (for grandkids only).”
Lisa, her daughter? “Organize massages and hair treatments at the spa.”
Audrey, the other daughter? “Call cleaning services for deep bathroom cleaning.”
“You’re so organized,” Diane beamed as if this were a compliment. “And we all know how much you love cooking!”
I blinked at the sheet. “So… I’m doing dinner every night?”
“Oh no, not every night!” Diane laughed. “Tuesday we’re eating out. There’s a lovely seafood place that I know Matt will love! You get that night off.”
I turned to my husband, expecting—hoping—for him to say something. Maybe laugh and call it out. Maybe wrap an arm around me and say, “Mom, seriously? Tess is here to relax too.”
But no. Instead, he rubbed my back and said, “They’re just trying to make it fair, babe.”
Fair. Right.
That night, I stood on the balcony, staring at the waves crashing against the shore, my mind racing. I had two choices. I could play along and teach them a lesson, or I could pack my bags and go home.
As tempting as leaving was, I didn’t want to. The place was beautiful, and I deserved a vacation just as much as the rest of them.
But I sure as hell wasn’t going to be their maid.
The next morning, I played my role. I cooked a massive breakfast spread—scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, pancakes, fresh fruit salad, and even mashed-up fruit for Audrey’s baby, Ethan. I cleaned up after everyone while they lounged on the deck, getting ready for the beach. I packed their coolers, rinsed sand from their beach toys, and made sure the little ones had everything they needed.
Diane gave me a cheerful thumbs-up before adjusting her sunhat and heading outside with her novel.
From the kitchen window, I watched them.
The sisters had hired a babysitter for the kids. Matt was already sipping a cocktail. Audrey was giggling as she got a foot massage. Lisa was taking selfies in her new red bikini. Diane was adjusting the umbrella so the sun would hit her just right.
And that was when it hit me.
They didn’t invite me on this trip to be part of the family. They invited me to serve them.
“Oh, you sneaky little fools,” I muttered, popping a cube of watermelon into my mouth. “You have no idea what’s coming.”
That night, Matt kissed my temple and said, “Thanks for today, babe. You were amazing.”
I didn’t respond. Because if I did, I might have started crying. And I refused to cry over dishwater.
Instead, I made a plan.
At dawn, while the house was silent, I got up. Matt wasn’t even in bed—he’d passed out in front of the TV with a beer in hand. I grabbed my suitcase, dumped out Matt’s extra clothes onto the bed, and packed essentials: sunglasses, a novel I hadn’t cracked open yet, a swimsuit, and a few snacks.
Then, I left a little gift on the kitchen counter.
The laminated chore chart.
With some edits.
Now, the duties were actually fair. Everyone had a turn cooking, cleaning, and looking after themselves. Diane’s Tuesday night was now “Taco Duty.” Matt? On dish duty. Three times.
Underneath it, I left a note:
“Thanks for the vacation, guys! I’ve adjusted the roster so it’s fair to everyone. Check the fridge for the schedule. I’ll see you Thursday for mini golf with the kids. If you’d like to do dinner, let’s do it as equals.”
Then, I walked out the door.
I booked myself a private suite on the far side of the resort. It had a balcony with an ocean view, a fluffy robe, and a breakfast buffet that didn’t require me to slice melons.
I turned off my phone, laid by the pool, and for the first time all trip, I read in absolute peace.
Turns out, word traveled fast among the resort staff.
By afternoon, a waiter smirked at me and said, “Thought you were with the big house group?”
“I was,” I said, stretching out on my lounge chair. “But they’re not really my vibe.”
He laughed. “Yeah, that tracks. Heard someone burned the breakfast. The blonde lady with the gold earrings broke the blender. They called housekeeping for help with dishes. They’re kind of falling apart.”
I grinned and took a sip of my mimosa. “Sounds about right.”
By Day 3, Matt showed up, sunburned and exhausted, clutching his baseball cap like a nervous kid in the principal’s office.
“Tess,” he said, approaching me. “The things I had to bribe the staff with just to find you. Can we talk?”
I sighed, gesturing to the chair beside me.
He sat and stared at the water. “I didn’t realize how much they were leaning on you.”
“You didn’t want to see it,” I said, calm but firm.
“You’re right,” he admitted, looking at his hands. “I thought you’d say something if you had a problem.”
I turned to him. “That’s the point, Matt. I shouldn’t have to. That’s your job as my husband.”
He exhaled. “I’m sorry.”
Silence stretched between us.
Then he asked, “Can I stay with you?”
I looked at him, really looked at him. “Are you ready to be on my team?”
He met my gaze. “Yes.”
I handed him the extra key card.
For the rest of the trip, we lived like honeymooners. We drank cocktails at the swim-up bar, played guessing games about strangers, and laughed real laughs—not out of politeness, but the kind that shake something loose in your chest.
The version of Matt I married came back.
But I wasn’t the same woman waiting for him.
I made a promise to myself: if he ever disappeared again—if the version of him that let his mother hand me a chore chart without blinking returned—I would leave.
And that time? I wouldn’t leave a note.
