“I just can’t take living in this house anymore. Just hearing her footsteps makes me feel sick,” Vera told me, a 28-year-old from York. “I thought a mother-in-law would be like a second mum, but it’s turned out to be a test of endurance.”
She and her husband, Alex, rented a flat right after they tied the knot. They didn’t have enough money to buy their own place but dreamed of saving up for it. Then Alex’s mum, Margaret, offered them a deal: “Why pay rent to strangers? Come live with me. I’ve got a three-bedroom flat, and there’s plenty of space.” At first, Vera saw it as a kind gesture, and moving in seemed sensible. For a while, it actually went well—until it didn’t.
“She thought she was the perfect housekeeper from day one. With forty years of marriage under her belt, she believed no cucumber ever went to waste, and not a single potato was ever thrown away. ‘Throwing out food is a sin,’ she repeats, like a mantra. Now we know what she means by her philosophy…”
Every evening turned into a trial. At the dinner table, she proudly shared tales of how she salvaged “slightly wilted cabbage” or how she soaked “smelly” meat in vinegar, saying, “and nobody even noticed.” Vera says after those dinners, she feels more like not eating at all—she can barely breathe.
“I wanted to cook for us, just to lend a hand. But she was having none of it. ‘This is my house, and I’m the boss here. Two cooks in the kitchen lead to arguments,’ she asserted. If I dared to chop anything, she’d hover over me, instructing, ‘Not like that! Not there!’ Then she’d huff off and sulk for a week. I get it—this is her space. We’re living under her roof. But I’m not a servant. I’m a person too, and I have my own taste. And health.”
Vera and Alex’s salaries weren’t much. They couldn’t afford to go out for dinners. Luckily, the office provided meals; otherwise, they would have gone hungry. But there were still dinners and weekends to worry about… And Margaret wouldn’t hear of them doing anything separately.
“One time, Alex and I just wanted to make some tea and grab a sandwich. But as soon as she heard the kettle, she was in the kitchen within a minute: ‘Did you forget to invite me? Is it too much to ask for tea for three? Or are you hiding from me now?’ And just like that, the evening was ruined. If she finds out we ate in our room—just sandwiches—she scolds, ‘Aren’t you ashamed? I cook for you, and you act like strangers!’” Vera shared.
They tried buying their own groceries—it didn’t work either. She claimed the fridge was communal and dividing it would mean the family falling apart. She believed that if her son had always eaten what she made and liked it, it was Vera’s fault if he wasn’t happy now. If he stayed silent just to avoid hurting her feelings, that was of no concern to her.
“And don’t get me started on her canning obsession. A hundred jars every season. We don’t eat them; neither does she. But the balcony is crammed with them. The jars are old, and the lids are rusty. Once, I cautiously suggested, ‘Maybe we can throw some out?’ She just laughed and said, ‘A bit of mold can easily be scraped off, and it’ll be fine!’ Honestly, it scares me. We’ll end up getting food poisoning one day. I don’t want my husband to suffer just because his mother ‘preserves everything.’ I have no idea how to stop it…”
Vera believes her mother-in-law’s stuck in the hungry nineties mindset. She truly thinks throwing away food is a crime. In her eyes, the younger generation has just gotten too spoilt. Vera is worn out from the constant digs, accusations, and unsolicited advice.
“We’re living off her generosity, and I’m thankful for a roof over our heads. But living in a house where I can’t even boil a kettle without permission—it’s unbearable. I’m sick of eating food that leaves me feeling anxious rather than satisfied. I’m exhausted from every step I take being scrutinised as if I’m invading ‘foreign territory.’”
Vera increasingly finds herself thinking about leaving. But they can’t afford rent right now. She loves Alex, but he’s caught in the middle. He stays quiet, not wanting conflict, and silently pushes her to endure.
“I’m scared I’ll just explode one day. I’ll scream everything right at her. And then I’ll pack my bags and leave. But where would I go? We can’t afford a flat of our own just yet. I’m trying to save, but it’s barely enough. I know I need to economise… but not at this cost. Food is about health. And peace of mind. And here, we have neither.”
What do you think—Is this a generational issue? Or is it simply a refusal to understand others? Why do some feel so strongly about never throwing away food, even if it’s dangerous, while others see it as a disregard for life and health? How do you cope when you’re denied even the right to put a kettle on in your own kitchen?