"I don't know what to do with myself," he admitted when my husband, Brian, and I visited him a few days after the incident. His cheerful voice was low, and his shoulders drooped.

Brian squeezed my hand, giving me the look — the one that said he was about to make an impulsive decision I'd have to clean up later. Sure enough, he turned to his dad and said, "Why don't you come stay with us for a bit? It'll be better than being alone."

Frank's eyes lit up, and before I could process what just happened, he was moving into our guest room with an alarming amount of suitcases for someone who claimed it was "temporary."

At first, it was fine. He seemed grateful, even a bit shy about imposing. But then little things started to change.

"Hey, dear," he called out one afternoon while I was on a Zoom call for work. "Can you grab me some coffee? I can't find the pods."

"They're right on the counter," I replied.

"Yeah, but you know how to work the machine better," he said, chuckling as though I'd find this endearing.

Then it was, "Can you fix me a sandwich?" and “Don't forget my toast in the mornings, I like it just golden." One day, he even handed me a basket of his clothes, saying, "I'll need these for golf tomorrow. Thanks, daughter."

Each time, Brian was "too busy" to notice. But my patience? That was wearing dangerously thin. I wasn't sure how much longer I could play along.

The breaking point came on a Thursday evening — a night I’ll never forget. My father-in-law decided to host poker night at our house, apparently without feeling the need to ask me first.

"Just a couple of guys, nothing big," he'd said that morning, flashing a grin as he searched through the fridge. "We'll keep it clean. You'll barely notice we're here."

Barely notice? By 8 p.m. the living room was transformed into a smoky den of laughter, chips clinking, and loud chatter. And me? I was in the kitchen, balancing trays of snacks and refilling drinks like an unpaid server.

"Hey, we're out of beer!" one of his friends yelled. "Sweetheart," Frank called to me, not even bothering to stand, "Can you grab some from the garage?" I clenched my jaw, my blood boiling, but I grabbed the beer.

When another one of his friends tapped his glass and said, "A little more ice," I nearly lost it.

After the game, as Frank walked his buddies to the door, I overheard him chuckling and saying to Brian, "See? That's how you should treat a woman."

The words hit me like a slap. I felt my stomach twist as the realization sunk in. This wasn't just about poker night — it was about a pattern. I'd seen it for years in the way Frank treated my MIL like she was there solely to cater to him. Now he was training my husband to do the same.

It started small, almost unnoticeable. "Hey, can you grab me a drink while you're up?" Brian would ask, even when I wasn't already standing. At first, I didn't think much of it — he'd always been good about splitting chores and being considerate. But then, those small favors turned into expectations.

One evening, as I was folding laundry, Brian walked past with a plate from his dinner. Instead of putting it in the sink like he always did, he left it on the coffee table. "Can you take care of that?" he asked, not even breaking stride.

Another time, I was in the middle of preparing dinner when he strolled into the kitchen. "Don't forget I need my blue shirt ironed for tomorrow," he said, planting a kiss on my cheek like it would soften the demand.