I’ve always looked forward to the holidays, but for the last five years, Christmas at my dad’s house has felt more like a grueling shift at a high-end restaurant than a festive family gathering. Ever since he married Linda, I’ve somehow become the designated “holiday maid.” Linda loves the aesthetic of a perfect, bustling home, but she has absolutely no interest in the manual labor required to create it.
This year, I arrived two days early, genuinely hoping we could finally spend some quality time together. I didn’t even have my suitcase upstairs before Linda intercepted me in the hallway. With a practiced, sweet smile, she handed me a literal clipboard. On it was a printed itinerary that would make a professional event planner flinch: vacuum the entire house, prep the stuffing, bake three different types of pies, and ensure the guest rooms were “hotel-standard” for the arriving relatives.
When I looked at her in disbelief, she just patted my arm. “It’s so good to have a helper in the house again!” she chirped. I looked past her into the living room, where her two biological children—both adults in their twenties—were sprawled on the sofa. They were scrolling through their phones and shouting questions about when lunch would be served. They weren’t lifting a single finger to help.
I decided to try and be the “bigger person” for a while. I spent four hours in the kitchen, my back aching and my hands stained from peeling endless vegetables. The breaking point came when Linda walked in, inspected the counters, and complained that the carrots weren’t sliced “elegantly” enough. She then sat down at the kitchen table, mere inches from the mess, to begin painting her nails.
I put the knife down and turned to her. “Linda, why aren’t your kids helping? Or Dad? Why is all of this on me?”
She sighed as if I were being a petulant child. “Dolores, they are guests. You’re part of this house. Besides, you have such a ‘knack’ for these things. Consider it your contribution to the family since you aren’t paying for the groceries.”
I was stunned. I work a full-time job and had already brought expensive gifts for everyone. I went to find my father, hoping for some logic. I explained that I felt exploited and that it wasn’t fair for me to do one hundred percent of the labor while everyone else relaxed. My dad didn’t even look up from his newspaper. He just said, “Don’t start drama, please. Linda has been stressed. Just do what she asks so we can have a nice time. Don’t ruin the spirit of Christmas for everyone.”
“Ruin it?” I asked, my voice trembling. “I’m the only one making it happen!”
I walked back inside, stripped off my apron, and went straight to my room. I told them I wouldn’t be doing another thing. If they wanted a three-course meal and a polished house, they could pick up a sponge themselves. The reaction was immediate and explosive. Linda started sobbing loudly about how “disrespected” and “unwelcome” she felt in her own home. My step-siblings began complaining that the house was a mess and they were hungry.
By evening, the family group chat was in a state of total crisis. My aunts and cousins, who haven’t even arrived yet, are now weighing in, telling me I should “honor my father” and stop being so sensitive. Dad eventually gave me an ultimatum: if I don’t apologize to Linda and finish the list, I’m not welcome to stay for the actual holiday.
I’m currently sitting in my childhood bedroom with my bags packed. The house is freezing, the kitchen is a disaster, and the turkey is still sitting raw in the fridge. I feel a pang of guilt, but mostly, I feel a sense of relief. I refuse to be the free labor for a family that only values me when I’m holding a scrub brush.
