My daughter-in-law said bluntly, “My whole family is having Christmas at your house—it’s only twenty-five people.”
I smiled and said, “Perfect. I’ll be traveling for a few days. If you’re the one inviting guests, then you can handle the cooking and the cleanup—I’m not here to play housekeeper in my own home.”
She froze like she couldn’t believe I’d actually said that, her eyes wide in the middle of my sunny Florida kitchen.
And right then, she realized the real “gift” of this holiday season had only just begun. Perfect, I told my daughter-in-law, Tiffany, when she announced that twenty-five members of her family were coming to spend Christmas at my house. “I’m going on vacation,” I added calmly.
“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 sixty-six years old. I live in a quiet, palm-lined cul-de-sac on the Gulf Coast of Florida, in a beige stucco house with white shutters and a little American flag hanging by the front door.
For the last five years, I have been treated like the live-in 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 told myself it was how I could keep my family together. I told myself it was just “helping the kids get on their feet.” But somewhere along the way, I stopped being a mother and became free labor.
I had reached my limit. That Tuesday in December, the air outside smelled faintly of the ocean and fresh-cut lawns. Christmas lights twinkled on the porches of my neighbors’ ranch houses.
Tiffany swept into my kitchen as she always did—without knocking—wearing a ridiculously expensive red designer dress that hugged her figure a little too perfectly for a “casual” afternoon visit. Her heels clicked against my ceramic tile floor like tiny hammers pounding on my last nerve. She tossed her long, salon-styled hair over her shoulder and gave me that bright, fake smile I had come to despise.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
