The Crowned Daughter-in-Law and the Brother with Demands. But Now, the House Is Quiet and Orderly
My brother and I are four years apart, with him being the elder. Our relationship was always civil—never close, but never hostile either. We lived peacefully in a three-bedroom flat in York with our parents. I was still at university when he finished his studies and announced his engagement to his former schoolmate, Amelia. Love since childhood, fate, all that romantic nonsense, he said.
Well, love it was, then. Mum and I saw right away that she wasn’t the modest sort. She wanted a wedding straight out of a film—a designer dress, a riverside venue, vows under an arch with swans gliding past, everything in “champagne and lavender.” As if. Our parents weren’t millionaires, just pensioners with modest incomes. They offered to pay for the honeymoon and leave the rest to them. Amelia’s parents weren’t much help either—they gifted her a throw blanket and a simple vase.
But my brother decided his princess deserved a fairy tale. He took out a loan. At outrageous interest. No discussions with the bank, none with our parents. Just marched in and declared, “We’ll manage on our own.” Good for him. Only, don’t come crying later.
The wedding was lavish. Photos flooded Instagram by the dozen. The honeymoon was no different. Honestly, I don’t know when she found time to relax, posting a thousand snaps a day.
When they returned, they rented a flat. That lasted two months. Then my brother turned up with a guilty look, saying they could barely afford food after the loan payments. So, our parents suggested they move in with us. Three bedrooms ought to be enough. The very next day, they were at the door with bags packed—clearly planned.
At first, it was tolerable. Mum and Dad worked late, so did I. My brother had his job. But his wife? Well, that’s when the performance began.
Amelia didn’t work. Claimed she “couldn’t find the right position.” Apparently, “right” meant a director’s chair and a six-figure salary. She lazed about all day, glued to her phone, occasionally video-calling her friends. Not once did she lift a finger—never bought so much as a loaf of bread, never chipped in for bills, never offered to help.
I cleaned. Mum cooked. Dad carried the heavy shopping. And her? Piles of laundry sat for weeks until Mum took pity and washed them. After meals, dishes stayed stacked. She wouldn’t even rinse her own mug. Sat there like royalty.
At first, I tried gentle hints, then blunt words. No use. Mum pleaded, “Just bear it, don’t fight. He’s your brother, after all…” But my patience wore thin, especially when I learned they weren’t scraping by—just skimping on us. While Amelia updated her wardrobe weekly and spent weekends at cafés, cinemas, and nail salons, as one does.
One day, I snapped. Outright told my brother:
“Nobody here signed up to be your wife’s servant. She lives under our roof, eats from our plates, uses our lights and water—and not so much as a thank you. No help, no respect.”
He exploded. Shouted that “Amelia’s sensitive,” that “I was jealous,” that “I wasn’t married myself, so I was bitter.” He even demanded we hand over the largest bedroom—”he had a right to proper living space.”
That’s when Dad lowered his newspaper and spoke up.
“Since when do you have rights here, son? You’re a guest. And while you’re here, act like one. Your ‘princess’ hasn’t lifted a finger. Enough. Move out.”
Mum backed him. And for the first time in ages, I breathed easy.
They packed up. Stayed with friends briefly, then found a one-bedroom somewhere. My brother blocked me everywhere. Decided I was to blame for their eviction.
But now? Peace. The house feels like home again. No sideways glances at dinner, no haughty footsteps in the hallway. We’re a family once more—just without the parasites.
What do you think? Should I have endured longer? Or did I do right, standing my ground? I suspect many have been in my shoes. And if you don’t fight for your own peace—they’ll climb right on your back and dangle their feet.