It was supposed to be a day to remember, my first birthday as a married woman. I imagined it would be simple but special—just a few close friends and family, some food, laughter, and maybe a cake with too many candles. But, of course, things rarely go as planned.
I was upstairs, trying to get ready. My hair was half-curled, clipped haphazardly like I was a dog trying to look fancy, and my makeup was a mess. I had eyeliner on one eye but had paused halfway through the other. My bathrobe was tied tightly around me like I was about to go into battle with my reflection.
“Just breathe, Judie,” I whispered, staring at myself in the mirror. “Everything’s under control.”
I could hear the hustle and bustle downstairs, but I was focused on getting ready. I had a party to host, and I didn’t want to look like a complete disaster. As I shakily applied eyeliner for the third time, I could feel my hands trembling from the stress of it all. The morning had been a blur of prepping and planning, fueled by way too much coffee. I had no idea how I was still standing, but somehow, I was.
And then, the door swung open without a knock. Richard, my husband Nick’s father, stood in the doorway. His face was that familiar mix of stern and disapproving.
“Hey!” he called, tossing a wrinkled shirt at me, which landed with a soft thud on my vanity. “Iron this for me, will ya? And I’m starving. Make me something to eat before everyone gets here. A sandwich will do.”
I blinked, still holding the eyeliner pencil in my hand. “I’m kind of in the middle of getting ready, Richard. The party starts in an hour.”
“So?” he shrugged, unfazed. “It’ll only take you a few minutes. You’re good at this stuff, right?”
“Good at what stuff, exactly?”
“You know, woman stuff. Cooking, ironing, cleaning. Susie always had my shirts ready.”
Ah yes, Susie—my mother-in-law, who had finally divorced Richard after 30 years of this kind of treatment.
“Is there a reason you can’t iron it yourself?” I asked, my voice steady, though my mind was racing.
Richard snorted. “Because it’s a woman’s job!” He said it so matter-of-factly, as if he was explaining the weather. “You’re a woman, aren’t you? It’s your job.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. For a whole year, I’d put up with his casual sexism, hoping it would go away. I’d tolerated his comments about “women drivers” and his need to explain my own job to me. I’d let him turn our home into his personal hotel whenever he visited. But today was different. It was my birthday, and I wasn’t about to let him waltz in and treat me like his personal maid.
“Sure, Richard!” I said, forcing a smile. “Give me 15 minutes.”
He nodded, completely satisfied, and wandered off to the living room. I heard the TV click on as I stood there, still in my bathrobe, trying to process what had just happened. But something inside me snapped.
Nick appeared a moment later, looking apologetic. “Was that my dad bothering you again?”
“Nothing I can’t handle!” I replied with a grin. “Actually, I think it’s time your father and I reached an understanding.”
“Oh no, Juds! What are you planning?”
I couldn’t help but smile as I turned to Nick. “Go keep your dad company. I’ve got some ‘woman stuff’ to take care of.”
I walked over to Richard’s expensive dress shirt—the one he had specifically brought to “impress everyone” at my party. I set the iron to the highest setting and dragged it carelessly over the fabric. The shirt sizzled and hissed as I moved it, leaving a scorched line across the chest. I lingered over the embroidered logo on the pocket, watching with satisfaction as the synthetic thread melted and puckered.
“Oops!” I whispered to myself, suppressing a laugh.
Then, I made the sandwich. I wasn’t trying to make it nice. In fact, I was determined to make it as gross as possible. Pickled sardines, raw onions, a thick smear of peanut butter, all layered on bread that had just gone hard enough to make your teeth cringe. There was no mayo, no mustard, nothing to hide the disgusting combination of flavors.
The doorbell rang. Our first guests had arrived—Molly, Nick’s sister, and her husband, Dan. I could hear Nick greeting them as Richard continued to chat away in the living room.
Perfect timing.
I walked into the living room, holding the plate with the sandwich in one hand and Richard’s ruined shirt in the other. I was the picture of domestic servitude.
“Here you go, Richard,” I said sweetly, handing him the mangled shirt and the sandwich.
Richard didn’t even look at me. He grabbed the shirt and started telling Dan about his latest golf game. But when he saw the sandwich, his face twisted like he had just bitten into a lemon.
“What the hell is this?” He lifted the bread, exposing the sardine-peanut butter monstrosity underneath.
“Your sandwich! Is something wrong?” I asked, feigning innocence.
Richard finally noticed the shirt in his hands and unfolded it. When he saw the scorched disaster, his face turned from pink to crimson.
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!” His voice boomed, freezing everyone in the room.
Molly’s eyes went wide. Dan stopped mid-sip of his beer. And Nick looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards.
But I remained calm. “I did exactly what you asked, Richard. I ironed your shirt and made you food.”
“You ruined my shirt! And this…” He thrust the plate toward me, “is inedible!”
“Oh no! I tried my best. But I guess not all women are naturally good at ‘woman stuff’ after all.”
The room went silent. Richard’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.
Then, Dan snorted, nearly choking on his beer. Molly couldn’t hold it anymore either, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
“You did this on purpose,” Richard accused.
“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 went from red to purple. He looked around the room for allies, but no one was on his side.
“NICK??” he barked. “Are you going to let her talk to me like this?”
My husband, God bless him, shrugged. “Sounds like you had it coming, Dad.”
“Unbelievable! Your mother would never—”
“Leave Mom out of this,” Molly cut in, no longer laughing. “She put up with your nonsense for 30 years. Don’t act surprised when Judie won’t do the same.”
Richard’s mouth snapped shut. He glared at me, his finger pointing 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.”
Just then, the doorbell rang again, signaling the arrival of more guests. Richard, realizing the room was firmly against him, stormed off to the guest bedroom with the ruined shirt balled up in his fist.
Nick squeezed my hand. “That was simultaneously the most terrifying and impressive thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Are you mad?” I asked, a little worried.
“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 and wrapped me in a hug. “That was amazing. Mom’s going to lose it when I tell her.”
Dan raised his beer in a toast. “Happy birthday to the woman who finally put Richard in his place.”
The party continued on, filled with laughter, conversations, and good times. But there was one person noticeably quieter than usual—Richard. He kept to himself, nursing a beer in the corner, and didn’t demand anything else from me. In fact, he even cleared his own plate after dinner.
Later, 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 smiled and shook my head. “No magic. Just boundaries.”
“Well, whatever it was, keep it up. Maybe there’s hope for the old dinosaur yet.”
After everyone had gone, and Nick was showing his father to the guest room, I started cleaning up the last bits 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 make 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? Well, it’s worth every scorched thread.
