I’m Emilíe, and after three years of marriage to Calvin, I’ve learned to tolerate my in-laws’ not-so-subtle jabs. They’ve never truly accepted me, and it’s been a constant struggle to find my place in a family that often makes me feel like I’m an outsider. From Patricia, Calvin’s mom, to his two sisters, Madison and Helly, it’s been clear from the start that I wasn’t their first choice for Calvin.

Madison, 39, has always had something to say about my eating habits. “Good for you, not caring about calories,” she’d comment every time I took a bite of dessert.

And then there’s Helly, 34, who’s younger than me but has always carried the air of a disapproving aunt. “Our family has strong customs,” she’d say with a smirk, as though trying to make me feel out of place.

But when Easter rolled around, they truly outdid themselves.

Three weeks before the holiday, Madison dropped the b0mb. “Since you and Calvin don’t have kids yet,” she said, practically eyeing me as if I were some sort of lesser being, “it would make sense for you to organize the Easter egg hunt.”

It wasn’t just about hiding a few plastic eggs, either. No, no. I was expected to organize a full event with scavenger hunt clues, costumes, and even a mascot—paid for with my own money. “It would really show you care about our family,” Susan, their mother, added smugly, sipping her latte while lounging on my backyard patio.

Calvin tried to speak up, “That sounds like a lot of work,” but was quickly interrupted by his sisters, who insisted this was just part of the tradition.

I sw@llowed my protests, but deep down, I had already started planning my surprise. They weren’t going to know what h!t them.

Two days before Easter, my phone buzzed with a new message: Patricia had created a family group chat. Without Calvin, of course. The message was clear—“Since you’re already helping, honey, it would be fantastic if you just cooked the Easter dinner! Calvin deserves a woman who can host well. 😘”

As the messages piled in, with suggestions about what I should prepare, it was clear they expected me to cook for 25 people. There were no offers to help, no inquiries about bringing a dish. Just a complete list of demands—ham, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, bread, and pies. All made by me.

Calvin noticed my growing frustration when I showed him the texts. “That’s ridiculous,” he said, his face turning red with anger. “I’ll talk to them.”

“No,” I said, resting a calming hand on his arm. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it covered.”

On Easter Sunday, everything was set. The table was decorated, the food was prepared, and everyone was gathered. But as the family dug into their meals, the real test began.

“Emilíe, this ham is a little dry,” Patricia remarked after her first bite.

“The potatoes need more butter,” Madison said, as if it were her place to judge.

“In our family, we usually serve the gravy in a proper boat, not a measuring cup,” Susan pointed out, despite the fact that I had used my grandmother’s antique gravy boat.

I bit my tongue. I could feel the tension building. It wasn’t just about the meal—it was the judgment. As they wrecked the kitchen and let their children run around, making messes and knocking things over, I steeled myself for what was coming next.

“Emilíe,” Patricia said, glancing at me from the couch. “The kitchen isn’t going to clean itself.”

And just like that, the moment I had been waiting for arrived.

“Oh, honey,” Patricia added, smirking. “Now you can clean everything up. Time to show you’re real wife material.”

I smiled, a smile that was both polite and packed with a plan they weren’t expecting.

“Of course, I’ll take care of it,” I said with cheerful determination. “Absolutely! I’ll handle everything!”

Their smug expressions softened as they settled back into their comfort. They thought they had won, that I was now their servant.

But then, I raised my voice, “Kids! Who’s ready for the special Easter Egg Hunt now?”

The children immediately perked up and rushed toward me, eager for the next adventure.

“But I thought we already did the egg hunt this morning?” Patricia asked, confused.

I winked at the kids. “That was just the regular hunt. Now it’s time for the Golden Egg Challenge.”

The kids squealed in excitement. I pulled out a golden plastic egg and held it up high.

“What’s the Golden Egg Challenge?” Madison’s 10-year-old son asked, practically jumping in his seat.

“Well,” I said, lowering my voice dramatically, “I hid something very special this morning. Inside this golden egg is a note about a VERY SPECIAL PRIZE.”

“Better than candy?” Susan’s daughter asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

“Absolutely,” I said, grinning. “It’s an all-expenses-paid prize. And it’s for you—whoever finds the Golden Egg gets to claim the grand prize.”

The children sprinted toward the backyard, eager to find the egg. Patricia and her girls, lounging on the couch, watched in mild amusement.

“That's sweet of you, Emilíe,” Patricia called out from her seat. “Keep them busy while we digest.”

Calvin caught my eye from across the room, his lips curling into a grin. I winked at him.

Fifteen minutes later, a triumphant shout rang out from the far corner of the garden. “I FOUND IT! I FOUND THE GOLDEN EGG!”

It was Susan’s daughter, Lily, running toward me with the egg held high.

“Congratulations, Lily!” I applauded. “Would you like to open it and see what you’ve won?”

Lily eagerly cracked open the egg, pulling out the small piece of paper inside. She furrowed her brow, trying to read it.

“Would you like me to read it for everyone?” I asked, my voice sweet as sugar.

She nodded, and I cleared my throat, the room going silent as I prepared to deliver my p:u:nchline.

“The winner of the Golden Egg earns the grand prize: you and your family will handle the entire Easter clean-up! Congratulations!”

For three beautiful seconds, there was complete silence.

Then, chaos.

“What?” Susan choked on her wine. “That’s not a prize!”

“That’s not fair!” Madison complained.

Lily looked confused. “I have to clean?”

“Not just you,” I replied cheerfully. “Your whole family gets to help! Isn’t that exciting? All the dishes, the kitchen, picking up candy wrappers—everything!”

Patricia stood up, trying to regain control of the situation. “Emilíe, dear, this is just a joke, right?”

“Oh no,” I insisted, “it’s the official Golden Egg prize. The kids have been so excited about it.”

And that’s when the most wonderful thing happened. All the children began chanting, “CLEAN UP! CLEAN UP!”

Calvin, standing beside me, was laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath.

“This isn’t funny,” Helly hissed.

“Actually,” Calvin said, wrapping an arm around me, “it’s hilarious.”

“We can’t expect the kids to clean,” Susan protested, turning red with embarrassment.

“Well, I’m just following the rules,” I said sweetly. “Family traditions are important, right? You taught me that!”

Patricia tried to maintain control, but the damage had been done. The kids were already picking up trash in the yard, taking the challenge seriously.

Susan finally muttered, “Fine,” defeated.

I handed her a pair of rubber gloves. “The dish soap is under the sink.”

For the next hour, I sat on the terrace, sipping a mimosa, while Calvin’s family cleaned up the kitchen. It felt so sweet, watching them work as I enjoyed the peace.

“You’re brilliant,” Calvin said, raising his glass to me.

“I learned from the best,” I answered. “Your family always says how important it is to follow traditions.”

And as I watched Patricia struggling with my roasting pan, I saw something shift in her—a hint of respect, perhaps.

Next Easter? I have a feeling they’ll come prepared with potluck dishes and cleaning supplies.