“Perfect,” I told my daughter-in-law, Tiffany, when she announced that 25 members of her family were coming to spend Christmas at my house.
“I’m going on vacation. You all can do the cooking and cleaning. I am not the maid.”
Her face went pale as if she had seen a ghost. But what she didn’t know was that the real surprise was just beginning.
My name is Margaret. I am 66 years old. And for the last 5 years, I have been treated like the servant in my own home.
It all started when my son Kevin married that woman. From the very first day, Tiffany decided I was her personal employee.
“Margaret, get me some coffee.”
“Margaret, clean this up.”
“Margaret, cook for my guests.”
And I, like a fool, always obeyed. I thought it was how I could keep my family together, but I had reached my limit.
That Tuesday in December, Tiffany swept into my kitchen as she always did—without knocking—with that fake smile I despised. She was wearing a ridiculously expensive red dress, undoubtedly paid for with my son’s money. Her heels clicked against my ceramic tile like little hammers on my last nerve.
“Margaret,” she said in that condescending tone she reserved for me. “I have marvelous news. My entire family is coming to spend Christmas here. It’s only 25 people. Only 25 people.
Only 25 people. As if that were a small number. As if I were a machine designed for cooking and cleaning.
I saw the malice glinting in her eyes as she continued with her master plan. She settled into my kitchen chair, crossed her legs, and began to list them off as if reading a grocery list.
“I’ve already spoken with my sister Valyria, my cousin Evelyn, my brother-in-law Marco, my uncle Alejandro. Everyone is coming. My nieces and nephews will be here. My second cousins, Valyria’s kids. It’s going to be a perfect Christmas.”
She took a dramatic pause, expecting my usual panicked reaction.
“Of course, you’ll handle everything. The food, the cleaning, serving the tables.”
Her words hit me like slaps. I remembered all the times I had prepared dinners for her friends while she took the credit. All the times I had cleaned up after her parties while she slept until noon. All the times I had been made invisible in my own house.
“We’ll need three turkeys at least,” she continued, ignoring my silence. “And that chocolate silk pie you make, too. Oh, and you’ll have to decorate the entire house. I want it to look perfect for the Instagram photos.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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