My father-in-law believes women belong in the kitchen—and I gave him a lesson he’ll never forget.
My father-in-law has never respected women. Not his wife, not his daughter, and certainly not me. He acts like it’s still 1955, where a woman’s role begins and ends with cooking, cleaning, and keeping quiet.
On my birthday, he threw his shirt at me and demanded I iron it and make him lunch. What he got instead was a reality check.
It was supposed to be a good day—my first birthday as a married woman. Nothing extravagant. Just a few close friends, some food, laughter, and maybe a cake topped with way too many candles.
I was upstairs, mid-glam, with half-curled hair clipped up like a confused poodle and eyeliner frozen in mid-wing. My robe was tied tight like I was about to enter the ring in a title fight—with my own reflection.
My hands trembled as I tried to apply my eyeliner for the third time. Hosting stress and too much espresso weren’t helping.
“Just breathe, Judie,” I told myself. “You’ve got this.”
And then the bedroom door swung open without a knock.
There he was—Richard. My husband Nick’s father. His usual scowl firmly in place.
“Hey!” he barked, tossing a button-up shirt at me. It landed on my vanity with a soft thud. “Iron this for me, would ya? And I’m hungry. Make me something to eat before everyone gets here. A sandwich is fine.”
I put down my makeup brush, the vanity suddenly the only steady thing in the room. I was still in a robe. Half-curled. Half-made up. And this man was making demands like I was a paid maid.
“I’m kind of in the middle of getting ready, Richard. The party starts in an hour.”
“So? This’ll only take a minute. You’re good at this kind of thing, right?”
“This kind of thing?”
He gestured broadly. “You know. Woman stuff. Cooking. Ironing. Cleaning. Susie always had my shirts ready.”
Susie—his now ex-wife—who finally divorced him after 30 years of this same behavior.
“Why can’t you iron it yourself?”
He actually laughed. “Because it’s a woman’s job! You’re a woman, aren’t you?”
I stared at him. I’d spent the last year quietly enduring his sexist comments. Swallowed my protests every time he ranted about “women drivers” or interrupted me to explain my own career. A year of treating our home like his hotel whenever he visited.
But today? Today was my birthday. And I’d had enough.
“Sure, Richard,” I said sweetly. “Give me 15 minutes.”
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