My rich father-in-law (FIL) kept mocking me for renovating my new home instead of hiring professional help. But during a party we held, the reception to my work was great, until my FIL messed it up. What he didn’t expect was that karma would fight my battles for me.
My dad used to say, “Your name goes on your work—do it right, or don’t do it at all.” He was a machinist who built custom bike frames in our little garage at home and was my hero and inspiration. What I didn’t know was that my FIL would not appreciate the same things my father did. This made us clash, until he did something unforgivable.
My parents worked to get all the things they had. They made no shortcuts and didn’t get handouts to get where they are. Although my father was a professional in his work, there were no degrees on the wall at home, just calloused hands and quiet pride.
I was never someone who liked chasing praise for anything I did, it just wasn’t the way I was raised. I’m thirty-five now, and my father’s words of wisdom have stuck like varnish. So when my wife Haley and I found out we were having our first baby, I didn’t reach out for help. I knew exactly what to do… I rolled up my sleeves!
The truth is, the one-bedroom rental on the east side we lived in was crammed. Leaky faucets, paper-thin walls, and zero room for a crib, let alone a crawling toddler. The kitchen was a tight fit, and we had no backyard.
We decided to buy a bigger house, something old but solid, something we could grow into. Haley kept trying to convince me to move into her parents’ guesthouse, but I just couldn’t do it. It felt like giving up.
Instead, we found an old two-story fixer-upper just past the city line. It had great bones and a backyard full of weeds. But I saw potential. It was the kind of house a kid could grow up in.
I cashed in my savings from my job at the auto shop and the side gigs I’d taken, refurbishing furniture in the garage. Bought it outright with Haley. Every cent came from us—no loans, gifts, or donations.
And definitely not a dime from my wife’s parents, Bruce and Lenora. Believe me, they could’ve funded the entire thing and still had enough left over for another Caribbean vacation. See, my in-laws were completely different from my parents.
I am sorry—not sorry—to say Bruce was the worst of the two. Think khaki golf shorts and vintage Rolexes—the type of guy who’d never gotten grease under his fingernails a day in his life.
Since winning the lottery in ’03, he treated every middle-class task like it was a novelty act. He once called changing a tire “a working man’s yoga.” All they do is take fancy vacations, spa dates, buy silk scarves, and go to tastings to drink expensive wine.
Since their win, they’ve never worked a day in their lives. However, despite their riches, they never offered to help us, but it’s not like I was expecting them to. What I didn’t expect was the constant passive-aggressive commentary from my FIL when we told him how the house was going to get fixed.
From the moment we told him we were fixing the place ourselves, he made it his personal mission to belittle everything I did!
“You? Renovate a house? What is this, a season of ‘Extreme Makeover: Midlife Crisis’?”
I didn’t respond, just went back to hammering down subflooring. My work included rewiring outlets, ripping up carpets, patching walls, refinishing floors, installing cabinets, building the crib by hand, and creating the nursery mural wall.
I spent my nights working while YouTube tutorials played in one ear at two in the morning, with Haley snoring softly in the next room. I even multitasked by listening to baby name podcasts while sanding cabinets so I could keep up with my upcoming child’s needs as well.
My weekends were all about tile saws, paint fumes, and lumber cuts. I learned as I went. When I messed up, I ripped it out and tried again, because I was proud of my work. Haley painted beside me when she wasn’t too nauseous from the pregnancy, but the bulk of it, I carried.
My hands were bleeding and my back ached, but I kept pushing forward—all to ensure our home would be ready in time for our baby.
Months in, during the final week of painting, Bruce decided to “swing by” in his white Tesla. I was on a ladder, patching drywall, covered in specks of wall and paint in my beard. He stepped inside the nursery, his expensive cologne mixing with the smell of sawdust.
“Well… looks sad,” he sniffed while looking around in his pressed slacks and one of those silk scarves around his neck. “But I guess it’s fine for someone on your budget. After all, my daughter didn’t marry a successful businessman, huh?”
I swallowed hard and clenched my jaw.
“Did it myself,” I said. “Saved us a lot.”
He chuckled, walking over to the half-finished bookshelf I’d built. He tapped one of the shelves, and it wobbled just slightly.
“Yeah. Hope the baby likes uneven floors and crooked shelves,” he said, smirking up at me.
I bit my tongue.
Haley, seven months along by then, heard the whole exchange from the hallway. She shuffled in, belly first, holding her back like it was made of glass.
“Bruce, maybe instead of criticizing the father of your grandchild, you could try saying ‘thank you.'”
He raised his hands like she’d accused him of murder.
“I’m just trying to help. No need to get emotional,” my FIL replied dismissively.
He eventually left when he realized Haley was staying put. But we couldn’t avoid him forever. The small gender reveal party was approaching, and my wife wanted everyone—yes, even Bruce and Lenora—to be part of the moment.
The event happened after I was done with the bulk of the renovations. Besides Haley’s parents, we invited friends, cousins, my wife’s extended family, and—unfortunately—her parents’ fancy friends from the country club.
We threw the party in the backyard. I’d spent three straight weekends landscaping—new pavers, flower beds, and a little water feature that gurgled like a tiny creek. I even strung Edison bulbs across the fence for ambiance.
People arrived, wine glasses in hand, and to my surprise, they were cooing over every detail!
“Who designed your kitchen backsplash? That hex tile is gorgeous!”
“The nursery mural… did you hire a designer?”
“That nursery looks like it’s out of a magazine!”
“Your backyard looks like something out of a wedding catalog.”
I was sitting, relishing in the praise, when I heard it. Bruce, voice loud and clear, got up from his table and raised his glass to give a speech.
“Well, I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he said with a chuckle, “but yeah… I may have had a hand in the renovation. All by myself! Had to get these old hands dirty for the baby, right?!”
There was a beat of shocked silence. Then clapping.
I was livid!
I sat there stunned as he took credit for my work!
Haley, furious, squeezed my hand under the table so tight I felt my bones grind! I was seeing red! But I just sat there, nodding like a bobblehead and smiling.
That was the night I learned I didn’t need to clap back. Because karma? She had a clipboard and a plan!
A week later, Bruce called—excited.
“HEY! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! So, funny thing, remember that charity group I mentioned? The one my friends run? They loved our house so much, they asked me to oversee a full renovation project on a local kindergarten. Pro bono! They want the same ‘handmade rustic charm’ with a ‘personal touch.'”
I let the silence sit a little too long.
“Oh yeah?” I finally said. “That so?”
“Yep! I’ll need a small crew. Thought I’d ask if you still had your tools?”
I smiled like I’d just won bingo!
“Sorry. I’m busy these days. Nesting. You know how it is.”
He tried to chuckle it off, but I could hear the disappointment through the Bluetooth speaker in the garage. He’d assumed I’d just drop everything to help him play contractor!
Turns out, he hired a real team, some overpriced design firm from downtown that specialized in “farmhouse chic.” But they didn’t know their way around permits or city inspections, and botched that. Delays stacked like dirty dishes!
Bruce tried to improvise, making calls and pretending to understand blueprints. But when the charity board dropped in for a surprise site visit mid-project, they quickly figured out he couldn’t even name a single paint brand!
Worse, he thought shiplap was a type of fish! And it was obvious that he had no idea how to hold a level! He was politely but publicly removed from the project. Lenora tried spinning it as Bruce “passing the baton,” but the damage was done.
Word spread through their country club circles like spilled wine on cashmere. The same friends who clapped during his speech were now asking me why he lied. But I didn’t answer—he was still my wife’s father and my future child’s grandpa.
Last week, Bruce dropped by. Haley was putting away baby clothes while I installed built-in bookshelves in the nursery.
He stood in the doorway, staring. He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“You did all this?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He nodded slowly. His voice was quieter than I’d ever heard it.
“Looks good.”
I wiped my hands and turned.
“Thanks.”
Haley walked in holding a lemonade, kissed my cheek, and handed it to me without a word. Bruce looked like he wanted to say something more, maybe even apologize. But instead, he just shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out.
Later that night, after my wife went to bed, I stood alone in the nursery.
There were stars painted on the ceiling, soft and gold. A bookshelf filled with old favorites and new adventures. The crib I built from reclaimed pine sat beneath the mural wall we’d painted together—trees, mountains, a sunrise breaking over a painted ridge.
I ran my hand along the bookshelf’s edge and smiled.
Because I didn’t need credit.
The baby won’t know who spent hours figuring out how to use a miter saw or who patched the ceiling leak after three failed tries.
But I’ll know.
And my name?
It’s still on the work.
