The Crowned Daughter-in-Law and the Brother with a Grudge. Yet Now, the House is Quiet and Orderly
There’s a four-year gap between my brother and me—he’s the older one. Growing up, we had a fairly normal relationship—not particularly close, but not hostile either. We lived peacefully in a three-bedroom flat in York with our parents. I was still at university when he graduated and announced he was getting married—to his former classmate, Charlotte. Love since childhood, destiny, all that.
Well, love is love. Mum and I could tell right away this girl wasn’t exactly humble. She wanted a wedding straight out of a film—designer dress, a riverside restaurant, vows under an arch with swans gliding by, everything in “champagne and lavender.” Right. Except our parents aren’t millionaires; they’re pensioners, even if they still work. They told him straight: they’d pay for the honeymoon, and the rest was up to them. Charlotte’s parents weren’t much help either—they gifted her a throw blanket and a modest vase.
But my brother decided his princess deserved a fairy tale. He took out a loan—with insane interest. Didn’t consult the bank, didn’t ask our parents. Just strolled in and said, “We’ve got this.” Well done. Just don’t complain later.
The wedding went off with all the trimmings. Photos flooded Instagram by the dozen. The honeymoon was no different. Honestly, I don’t know when she had time to relax, posting hundreds of pictures a day.
When they returned, they rented a flat. That lasted two months. Then my brother showed up with a guilty face—said it was too much, all their money went to the loan, they had nothing left. So our parents offered them our place. Three bedrooms, so there was space. The very next day, they were at the door with suitcases—clearly packed in advance.
At first, it was bearable. Mum and Dad were at work till evening, so was I. My brother worked too. But his wife? Oh, then the show started.
Charlotte didn’t work. Said she “couldn’t find the right position.” By “right,” she clearly meant a CEO’s chair and a six-figure salary. All day, she lounged on the sofa with her phone, sometimes video-calling her friends. Not once did she bring home so much as a loaf of bread. Not a single pound toward bills. Didn’t lift a finger to help.
I cleaned, Mum cooked, Dad carried heavy bags. And her? A pile of laundry sat in the bathroom for weeks until Mum took pity and washed it. After meals—dishes left stacked. Couldn’t even rinse her own mug. Sat there like royalty.
At first, I tried gentle hints. Then I spoke plainly. No use. Mum begged me, “Just bear with it, don’t fight. He’s still your brother…” But it got harder to tolerate. Especially when I found out they weren’t actually broke—just saving money at our expense. All while my sister-in-law updated her wardrobe weekly and spent weekends at cafés, cinemas, getting her nails done—living it up.
One day, I snapped. Said it straight to my brother:
*”No one here signed up to wait on your wife hand and foot. She lives under our roof, eats our food, uses our utilities—and can’t even say thank you. No help, no respect.”*
He lost it. Shouted that *”Charlotte’s sensitive,”* that *”I was jealous,”* *”bitter because I’m not married.”* Even claimed we should give them the biggest bedroom—*”he has a right to space too.”*
Then Dad finally looked up from his newspaper.
*”Son, since when do you have rights here? You’re a guest. And while you live here, act like one. Your ‘princess’ hasn’t lifted a finger. Enough. Move out.”*
Mum backed him up. And for the first time in ages, I could breathe.
They packed up. Stayed with friends at first, then found a tiny flat. My brother blocked me everywhere. Thinks I’m the reason they got kicked out.
But now? Peace. The house is cozy again. No side-eyed glances at dinner, no haughty stomping down the hall. We’re a family again—just without the freeloaders.
So, what do you think? Should I have kept putting up with it? Or was I right to put my foot down? Bet plenty have been in the same boat. Let them take an inch, and they’ll take a mile.