On my first birthday as a married woman, I was getting ready upstairs when my father-in-law barged in, tossed me his shirt, and demanded I iron it and make him food. Richard has always acted like it was still the 1950s, treating women as servants. But it was my day, and I wasn’t about to let him ruin it.

Instead of arguing, I agreed with a smile. Then I scorched his precious dress shirt with the iron and made him a revolting sardine-and-peanut-butter sandwich. When I presented both in front of my guests, his outrage filled the room. I calmly reminded him that not all “women” are naturally good at his so-called “woman’s work.” Laughter broke the silence, and for once, Richard had no allies.

Humiliated, he stormed off, only to later reappear wearing one of my husband’s old shirts. When he realized no one supported his behavior, he finally had to face the truth. At one point, he even ironed a shirt himself — clumsy but passable — marking the first time he’d done such a “woman’s job” in his life.

The party went on with joy and laughter, and Richard kept unusually quiet. My biggest gift wasn’t cake or presents — it was finally finding my voice. That day I set a boundary Richard will never forget: in my home, respect isn’t optional, and I don’t take orders.