My husband and I have been married for a little over a year now, and we were hosting a small birthday gathering at our house with a few friends and family.

I was busy trying to get myself ready—half-curled hair, half-done makeup, wearing a robe and running on stress and coffee.
That’s when my father-in-law,

Richard, waltzed into the room like he owned the place. Shirt in one hand, entitled tone in full force.

“Hey, here’s my shirt for tonight. Iron it. And I’m hungry—make me a sandwich or something. And HURRY UP.”
I paused mid-eyeliner.

“Richard, are you busy right now to do it yourself?”
“Nope,” he said, plopping onto the couch. “BUT THAT’S YOUR JOB.”
I blinked.

“YOU’RE A WOMAN, AREN’T YOU?”
Ah. Classic Richard.

This is the same man who made life so difficult for my mother-in-law that she eventually left him for good.

And yet here he was, trying to boss me around like I was his personal maid—on MY OWN birthday.

I smiled. “Sure, Richard. Give me a few minutes.”

After fifteen minutes, I walked out of the kitchen with a plate and an ironed shirt.

Richard took the plate, pulled the shirt from my hands, and his hands started shaking as he barked, “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!”