My husband’s family didn’t know I’d concealed something special among those chocolate bunnies when they hired me as their Easter maid.
What occurred next still makes me laugh.
I’ve never posted my dirty laundry online. Really, I’m not. The Easter event was too lovely not to share.
I’m Emma, 35, a marketing director for a mid-sized company, and married to Carter for three great years. Carter fulfills all my needs. He’s kind, witty, and can load a dishwasher.
Our relationship has been nearly perfect except for one major concern. HIS FAMILY.
“Emma, honey, could you grab me another mimosa while you’re up?” I’d barely taken two steps toward the kitchen when my mother-in-law Patricia’s voice floated over our rear patio last month.
She’d been sitting in her comfy lounge chair for nearly an hour.
I don’t gripe about everything. Social media isn’t where I vent or publish passive-aggressive status updates. Carter’s mother and sisters, Sophia, Melissa, and Hailey, are exceptional.
By exceptional, I mean entitled.
I smiled, “Of course, Patricia,” after three years of marriage.
They made it plain I wasn’t Carter’s match from the start.
They think they’re always right and have never embraced me. They give barbed-wire compliments.
“Oh, Emma, you’re so brave to wear something that tight,” Sophia, 41, the oldest, said at our last family gathering, examining my regular clothing.
Melissa, 39, always comments on my diet. “Good for you, not caring about calories,” she said as I took a slice of dessert.
Despite being younger than me, Hailey, 34, usually sounds like a judgmental aunt. We have strong family customs. Hope you can keep up.”
But this Easter? WOW, they outdid themselves.
“Since you and Carter don’t have kids yet,” Melissa said three weeks before Easter as her three children climbed all over my freshly cleaned furniture, “it would make sense for you to organize the Easter Egg Hunt.”
Go beyond hiding plastic eggs. No.
I had to organize a scavenger hunt, outfits, and a bunny mascot using my own money.
“It would really show you care about our family,” Sophia said, sipping her cappuccino and adjusting her big sunglasses on my rear patio.
Carter grabbed my hand under the table. “That sounds like a lot of work,” he began, but his sisters interrupted him.
“It’s just what we do in this family,” Hailey shrugged, though she’d never organized anything.
Fine. Swallowed my protests. For now.
They didn’t know I’d started planning an unforgettable Easter.
My phone vibrated two days before Easter with a text. Patricia organized a family talk. Naturally, excluding Carter.
“Honey, since you’re helping, cooking Easter dinner would be great! “Carter deserves a wife who hosts well. 😘”
I watched my phone while Sophia, Melissa, and Hailey offered “suggestions.” My blood pressure rose with each notification.
Her intent was to cook for 25. Full spread: ham, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, deviled eggs, rolls, two desserts, and “a lighter option for those of us watching our figure.”
They all declined to provide pies.
“They want you to do what?” Carter asked when I showed him messages. Face flushed with rage. “That’s ludicrous. Talk to them.”
“No,” I murmured, touching his arm. “Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s too much effort, Emma. Maybe I should order catering.”
I kissed his cheek and grinned. “I’ve got this, trust me.”
Beautiful spring weather arrived on Easter Sunday. I’d been concealing eggs for the hunt and preparing the feast they demanded since morning. Carter’s family flooded our house before midday. His mother, three sisters, their husbands, and four–12 children.
Patricia said, “Emma, this ham is a bit dry,” after one taste.
Melissa said, “The potatoes need more butter.”
Sophia noted, “In our family, we usually serve the gravy in a proper boat, not a measuring cup,” albeit I’d used my grandmother’s antique gravy boat.
Carter defended me, but I looked at him and shook my head. Not yet.
They ate. They ruined the kitchen. Their youngsters ran free, spreading chocolate everywhere.
Melissa’s youngest knocked over a vase, but no one cleaned up. All I heard was “Kids will be kids!”
After eating, they sat on the couches with their wine cups, motionless.
Sophia said, “Emma,” “the kitchen isn’t going to clean itself.”
“Oh, honey,” Patricia said. You can now clean up. You must prove your wifeliness.”
While their husbands watched basketball in the den, they grinned and lounged on the couch like queens.
Carter rose. “I’ll help you, Emma.”
I shouted “No, sweetie,” to everyone. “You worked hard all week. Go chill with the boys.”
Happy glances from the sisters. They thought they won.
I grinned. My smile was pleasant. Clapped my hands.
“Absolutely!” Chirped. “I’ll handle everything!”
As they resumed discussing Sophia’s voyage, their smug features relaxed. Hailey kicked up her feet on my coffee table, leaving small shoe impressions.
“Kids!” I shouted happily. “Who’s ready for the special Easter Egg Hunt now?”
Children ran from all over the house, excited.
“But I thought we already did the egg hunt this morning,” Patricia said.
“Oh,” I winked at the kids. “Just the usual hunt. Time for the Golden Egg Challenge.”
Kids squealed from excitement.
“What’s the Golden Egg Challenge?” Melissa’s ten-year-old son asked excitedly.
“Well,” I said, bringing out a dazzling golden plastic egg from my pocket, “I hid something extra special while setting up the regular Easter Egg Hunt this morning.”
The youngsters surrounded me, amazed by the shiny egg in my palm.
“Inside this golden egg is a note about a VERY SPECIAL PRIZE,” I whispered. “Much better than candy.”
“Better than candy?” Sophia’s eight-year-old daughter gasped like I said the moon was cheese.
“Absolutely. An all-inclusive award!” Announced.
Kids were practically salivating. Patricia and her girls watched from the couch with modest interest, perhaps thinking I was talking about a toy or gift card.
“The golden egg is hidden somewhere in the backyard,” I said. The finder receives the ultimate prize! Ready?”
Children ran for the rear door, practically trampling each other to get outdoors.
“That’s sweet of you, Emma,” Patricia said from the couch. “Keep them busy while we digest.”
Carter arched an eyebrow at me from across the room. Just winked.
15 minutes of desperate searching yielded a triumphant shout from the garden’s far corner.
“I found it! Found the golden egg!”
Sophia’s daughter Lily ran across the grass brandishing the golden egg like an Olympic torch.
Perfect. Can’t have planned better if I tried.
A golden egg From Pexels
A Pexels-sourced golden egg
“Congratulations, Lily!” I rejoiced as everyone gathered. “Would you like to open it and read your prize?”
The eight-year-old eagerly opened the plastic egg and removed a small wrapped paper. Reading it made her frown.
“Would you like me to read it for everyone?” I offered pleasantly.
She nodded and gave me the document.
“Ahem,” I dramatically coughed. “The Golden Egg winner gets the Grand Prize: Your family cleans up Easter completely! Congratulations!”
Three glorious seconds of silence filled our backyard.
Then the commotion.
“What?” Sophia nearly choked on wine as she spluttered.
“That’s not a prize!” Melissa complained.
Miss Lily looked confused. “I have to clean?”
“Not just you,” I said pleasantly. “Your family helps! Wow, that’s exciting. Cleaning up the kitchen, dishes, and candy wrappers…
Patricia began, “Emma,” sternly. “This is just a joke, right?”
“Oh no, it’s the official Golden Egg prize,” I said. “The kids have been so excited about it.”
The most amazing thing happened then. All the kids chanted, “CLEAN UP! CLEAN UP!”
Carter couldn’t contain his laughter.
“This isn’t funny,” Hailey said.
Carter stepped beside me and wrapped an arm around my waist, “Actually,” “it’s hilarious.”
Sophia argued, “We can’t expect the kids to clean,” her face crimson.
“I’m just following the rules,” I said politely. Family traditions matter, right? You taught me!”
Patricia rose, plainly struggling to retake control. “Emma, dear, this is inappropriate.”
“Is it?” I asked innocently. “More improper than one individual cooking and cleaning for 25 people alone? More inappropriate than criticizing my meal while you eat it?”
The kids kept chanting, louder each time. Several had started collecting yard rubbish, taking the challenge seriously.
“Mom,” Lily tugged Sophia’s beautiful blouse. We won!” We must clean!”
As their children’s enthusiasm grew and the situation became unpleasant, they had no choice.
“Fine,” Sophia said.
I smiled and gave her rubber gloves. “The dish soap is under the sink.”
I sipped a perfectly chilled mimosa on the terrace with my feet up for an hour, watching Carter’s mother and sisters clean dishes, counters, and floors.
Carter clinked his glass with mine. “You’re brilliant, you know that?”
“I learned from the best,” I said. “Your family always says how important it is to follow traditions.”
I noticed Patricia clumsily scrubbing dried gravy from my roasting pan. Her expression changed briefly. Something suspiciously like respect.
Next Easter? They’ll probably bring cleaning supplies and potluck dishes.
If you liked this tale, try another: My payback for my grandsons after they left my wife at a gas station was cold. Sometimes love is hard and lessons must sting to stick.
Inspired by true events and people, this work is fictionalized for creativity. To preserve privacy and enrich the story, names, characters, and facts were changed. Any resemblance to real people, events, or places is unintentional.
Fin ! ==================================================================
Joke : Title: “The Chalkboard Between Us”
When Ava moved to Millbridge High in her junior year, she wasn’t looking for love. She wasn’t looking for friends, either. She just wanted to survive.
New school. New town. New house. Her parents’ recent divorce had left fault lines everywhere — in her mother’s temper, in the silence over dinner, in Ava’s heart.
So she kept her head down, stuck her earbuds in, and melted into the background.
Until she met Noah Whitaker.
Noah was the kind of boy who knew everyone’s name — not in the fake, politician way, but in the real, warm way that made people feel seen. He had ink on his fingers from sketching in the margins of his notebooks, and a laugh that could make a funeral feel like a fireworks show.
They met in the least romantic way possible: assigned lab partners in chemistry. Noah spilled an entire test tube of copper sulfate during their first experiment and blamed “the weird energy between them.”
Ava rolled her eyes.
He grinned.
From that moment, something started.
WEEK THREE.
They started eating lunch together.
Ava didn’t remember agreeing to it. One day he just sat beside her on the stone bench under the tree in the courtyard and said, “I figured this spot could use a little extra charm. Lucky for you, I have plenty.”
She almost choked on her sandwich. “Do you practice lines like that?”
“Only on girls who never smile.”
“I smile.”
“Oh yeah? When?”
She didn’t answer — but she smiled then.
He never let her forget it.
WEEK SIX.
Noah walked her home for the first time.
She asked him why he cared.
He shrugged. “Because you look like someone who keeps everything locked up tight. I want to be the one you open up to.”
That night, under the flickering porch light of her peeling rental house, she told him about her dad. How he left just after Christmas. How her mom hadn’t gotten out of bed for three days.
Noah didn’t say “I’m sorry.” He just took her hand and squeezed it once. It was the only time in her life that silence felt like comfort.
WEEK TEN.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t perfect. His lips were cold from a soda. Her nose bumped into his.
But it didn’t matter. Because it felt like everything before that moment had just been a slow climb to this. And now she was standing at the top of something she didn’t understand — but didn’t want to climb down from.
SPRING.
They were inseparable. Yearbook superlatives hadn’t even gone to print yet, but everyone already joked they’d be “Cutest Couple.”
Noah drew her in his sketchbook. Always. On park benches. On late bus rides. At lunch, while she read novels with her feet on his lap.
Ava had never felt beautiful until someone started capturing her that way.
PROM.
They went together, of course.
He wore a navy blue suit. She wore a soft silver dress that shimmered under the gymnasium lights.
They danced to a slow song that wasn’t even good, but became their song because he sang it off-key into her ear while she laughed so hard she cried.
“Don’t ever leave me,” she whispered.
He pulled her tighter. “Don’t plan on it.”
SUMMER.
But life isn’t kind to high school promises.
Noah got into an art program in Chicago. Ava’s mom lost her job and couldn’t afford to send her to college that year.
“I’ll wait,” she said.
“I’ll come back,” he said.
But two weeks into the semester, the phone calls slowed. Then stopped. His texts went from novels to single sentences. Then nothing at all.
One day she opened Instagram and saw a photo of him — smiling beside a girl in a denim jacket, captioned: “New city, new light.”
Ava didn’t cry.
She just closed the app, opened her notebook, and began to write instead.
YEARS LATER.
Ava became a high school English teacher in a small coastal town — not too different from Millbridge. She still remembered the feel of spring dances and the taste of cafeteria fries. She still thought of Noah whenever she saw copper sulfate.
One day, a guest artist came to speak to the seniors about careers in the arts.
He walked in, older, broader in the shoulders. A few faint lines near his eyes.
Her breath caught. So did his.
After the talk, he found her in the hallway. “I heard you stayed.”
“I did.”
“I thought about you every year.”
“I thought about you every day.”
He laughed, the same laugh. “God, Ava.”
They didn’t hug. They didn’t kiss.
They just stood there, thirty-year-olds with seventeen-year-old ghosts between them.
“You were my favorite sketch,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know how to keep you.”
She nodded. “It’s okay. I became my own artist.”
He looked at her like he didn’t know whether to apologize or applaud.
Then her classroom bell rang, and she smiled gently.
“Take care, Noah.”
He watched her disappear into her class, students calling her name, life buzzing all around her.
He’d loved her once.
She had loved him forever.
But some stories aren’t meant to be rewritten — only remembered.
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