I should have known something was wrong the second Diane handed me the laminated sheet.
We had barely stepped into the beach house, the salty breeze still clinging to our skin, when she patted my arm and smiled sweetly.
“Tess, honey, I made this to keep things running smoothly.”
At first, I smiled back, thinking it was something useful—maybe the Wi-Fi password or a list of fun things to do nearby. But when I looked down, my stomach twisted.
It was a chore chart.
Color-coded. Detailed. Broken down by day and task. And guess whose name showed up the most?
Mine.
Matt’s mom had assigned me meal prep, dinner planning, cleaning up, grocery shopping (with a helpful note about the nearest store), and even laundry and ironing.
As for Diane’s own responsibilities? Just one: “Help with sunscreen application (for grandkids only).”
Her daughters, Lisa and Audrey, weren’t exactly burdened either. Lisa was in charge of “organizing massages and spa treatments.” Audrey? “Call the cleaning service for a deep bathroom scrub.”
Diane beamed at me. “You’re so organized,” she said like it was a compliment. “And we all know how much you love cooking!”
I stared at her. “So I’m… doing dinner every night?”
“Oh, no! Not every night!” She let out a lighthearted laugh. “We’re eating out on Tuesday. There’s a lovely seafood place I just know Matt will love. You get that night off!”
I turned to my husband, expecting him to say something—maybe a chuckle, maybe a, “Mom, come on. Tess and I are here to relax together, too.”
Instead, he just rubbed my back and said, “They’re just trying to make it fair, babe.”
Fair? Right.
Later that evening, I stood on the balcony, watching the sunset paint the sky in oranges and pinks. I had two choices.
I could pack my bags and go home, or I could teach them a lesson.
I wanted to be here. I needed a break, too. But not like this.
That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning in slow, rhythmic circles. Matt was asleep beside me, his arm draped over my waist. But it didn’t feel comforting. It felt heavy.
I thought about how excited I’d been while packing, how I’d imagined lazy mornings, long walks, and my first real vacation as a married woman.
But instead, I was the hired help. And Diane didn’t even bother hiding it.
The next day, I played along.
I made a full breakfast spread—fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, golden pancakes, fresh fruit salad. Even mashed fruit for Audrey’s baby, Ethan.
I rinsed the sand off the toys, packed the coolers with snacks and drinks, made sure everything was perfect. And when Diane strutted out to the deck in her sunhat, novel in hand, she gave me a cheerful thumbs-up.
I stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing dishes, watching through the window.
Lisa posed for selfies in her new red bikini. Audrey giggled as the spa masseuse worked on her foot. Diane adjusted her umbrella so it wouldn’t shade her too much.
Matt? He was sipping a cold drink through a straw, not a care in the world.
That’s when it hit me. They hadn’t invited me to be part of the vacation. They had invited me to serve them.
“Sneaky fools,” I muttered, popping a cube of watermelon into my mouth. “You have no idea what’s coming.”
That night, as I stood at the sink drying silverware, Matt came up behind me and kissed my temple.
“Thanks for today,” he said softly. “You were amazing.”
I smiled, but inside, something snapped. I wasn’t about to spend ten days like this. No way.
I had a plan.
At dawn, I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Matt. Not that he would notice—he had passed out on the couch after drinking beer in front of the TV all night.
I picked up my suitcase and dumped out Matt’s extra clothes. Then I packed a smaller bag with essentials: my sunglasses, the novel I hadn’t had a second to read, and some snacks.
I left the laminated chart on the kitchen counter—but not before making some “adjustments.”
I rewrote it. Made it fair.
Diane’s “relaxing Tuesday” was now “Taco Night.” Matt? He had dish duty. Three times.
At the bottom, I left a note:
“Thanks for the vacation! I’ve made some changes so everything’s fair. See fridge for schedule. I’ll be by Thursday for mini golf with the kids. Text me if you’d like to do dinner… as equals, of course.”
Then, I walked out.
The resort had another section of private beachfront suites—quiet, luxurious, and meant for couples who wanted to unwind. I booked one using the money I had saved for Matt’s anniversary gift.
Did he really need a designer watch? After the last two days? Nope.
My new room had an ocean view, soft robes, and—best of all—a breakfast buffet that didn’t require me to slice melons.
I turned off my phone, laid by the pool, and read my book in perfect silence.
The resort staff quickly picked up on what happened.
“Thought you were with the big house group?” a waiter asked, pouring me a mimosa.
“I was.” I shrugged. “But they’re not exactly my vibe.”
He smirked. “Yeah, that tracks. I heard the blonde lady with the big earrings broke the blender. Someone burned breakfast. The cleaning staff had to be called in. It’s chaos.”
I took a sip of my drink and grinned. “Sounds about right.”
By Day 3, Matt showed up.
He looked exhausted and sunburned, gripping his baseball cap like a nervous kid. “Tess,” he said. “Can we talk?”
I sighed, gesturing to the lounge chair beside me. He sat in silence for a moment, just staring at the ocean.
“I didn’t realize how much they were leaning on you,” he finally admitted.
“You didn’t want to see it,” I said simply.
“You’re right.” He looked down. “I should’ve said something.”
“You should have.” I took a sip from my drink. “Your mom handed me a chore chart, and you called it fair.”
“I thought you’d say something if you had a problem.”
I shook my head. “I shouldn’t have to. That’s what you’re supposed to do. You’re my husband.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
We sat in the silence for a while. Then, finally, he looked at me.
“Can I stay with you?” he asked.
“Are you ready to be on my team?” I countered.
His eyes, for the first time in days, were clear. “Yes.”
I handed him my spare key. And for the rest of the trip, we vacationed together.
A year later, no more chore charts. No more laminated schedules.
Now, when we’re invited anywhere, Matt checks in first. He asks what I want.
And if I say no?
We don’t go.
