My mother-in-law treats me like a maid: She insists I’m lucky to even have a house to clean.
She acts like a spoiled child. Nearly sixty years old, yet she carries on as if she’s oblivious to her age, indulging in petty behaviour that makes my blood boil. My husband, her only son, is her golden boy. He adores her, defends her, and she happily takes advantage of it. Meanwhile, I’m the mother of two, planning for a third. Yet in this house where we all live, I don’t feel like a wife—I feel like hired help.
We live in a large house on the outskirts of Manchester, five of us crammed under one roof. There’s space enough, but the upkeep is relentless. Dust gathers in the rooms, grime clings to the bathroom tiles, and dishes pile up in the kitchen—all of it left for me because I’m on maternity leave. My husband, William, comes home late, eats his dinner, then spends what little time he has left with the children before bed. I appreciate that—a father should be present. But my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, might as well live on another planet. She works, though it’s more of a pastime than a necessity. Once a head accountant, now she clocks in part-time at a local firm. But she’s never in a hurry to come home. She’d rather chat with coworkers, linger over free lunches, and soak up gossip.
When she finally returns, she locks herself in her room, blares the telly, and scrolls endlessly through social media. She shows no interest in her son, her grandchildren, or—least of all—me. My four-year-old at least hands me a clean towel when I ask. Margaret? She’s a riddle I’m too tired to solve.
If she simply kept to herself, I could bear it. But no. Family dinners are rare—William’s at work, the kids are with friends, everyone eats when they please. One rule stands: clear your crumbs and rinse your plate. I don’t mind washing up. But Margaret ignores it. She leaves dirty dishes cluttering the table and strolls off as if it’s nothing. Every. Single. Time. She’s set in her ways, and I doubt she’ll change. I clean the whole house, but I avoid her room—I dread to imagine the mess inside.
She doesn’t even know how to turn on the hoover. Once in a blue moon, she’ll pick up a broom and make a show of sweeping, but it’s so unconvincing it might as well be theatre. At least she washes her own clothes—small mercies. I’ve complained to William, but he just shrugs. “Mum’s been like this since Dad died. She’s withdrawn.” Withdrawn? She’s the life of the party at the office! Maybe she just can’t stand me. The worst part? Her indifference to the grandchildren.
I thought grandmothers doted—spoiling kids with sweets, playing games, fussing over them. Margaret’s the exception. She doesn’t lift a finger for them, offers no gifts, not even attention. I tried reasoning with her once. It was a farce. She stared at me like I was some petulant schoolgirl and said, “You live under my roof.” In her mind, because William brought me here, my role is to bear children and serve. She’ll tell me, straight-faced, that a wife’s duty is housekeeping, and I should be grateful to have a home to clean. She’s even scolded me for not working, boasting that she—retired as she is—still pulls her weight.
She contributes to groceries, but I doubt it’s much on her part-time wage. William handles the finances, but I don’t bother telling her how I spend my days—cooking, cleaning, ironing, raising children. We could compare responsibilities, but she won’t listen. The conversation went nowhere. She believes she has the right to order me around because I’m the outsider. And as for the grandchildren? “That’s the parents’ job,” she says.
My patience is wearing thin. What do I do? Pretend everything’s fine and act like I’ve got three children—two of them mine, and one a grown woman throwing tantrums? Or fight back? Tell William everything, confront her again, demand change? Maybe I’ll earn respect and stop feeling like a servant. But what if it all blows up in my face?
I can’t take much more. It’s exhausting. Is it worth fighting for my place here? I’d like to think so. Sometimes, standing your ground is the only way to stop others from walking all over you.