My mother-in-law treats me like a servant: She insists I’m lucky to have a house to clean.
She behaves like a spoiled child, though she’s nearly sixty. You’d think she’d act her age, but no—she carries on with such childish antics it makes my blood boil. My husband, her only son, is her treasure. He dotes on her, supports her in everything, and she, no doubt, takes full advantage. Meanwhile, I’m the mother of two, with plans for a third. But in this house—where we all live—I don’t feel like the lady of the house. I feel like the help.
We live as a family of five in a large house on the outskirts of Manchester. Plenty of space, but it demands upkeep. Dust in the bedrooms, grime in the bathroom, dishes piling up in the kitchen—it’s all fallen on me, especially since I’m on maternity leave. My husband, Oliver, comes home late from work, has his supper, then spends a bit of time with the kids before bed. I appreciate that—a father should be present. But his mother, Margaret Hughes, might as well live in another world. She works, but it’s more a hobby than a necessity. Once a chief accountant, she now puts in half days at a local office. Yet she’s never in a hurry to come home. She’d rather chatter with colleagues, linger over lunch in the staff canteen—anything for a good gossip.
When she does return, she locks herself in her room, blares the telly, and buries herself in her phone, endlessly scrolling. She couldn’t care less about her son, her grandchildren, or—least of all—me. My youngest, just four, at least hands me a clean towel if I ask. But my mother-in-law? She’s a mystery I’m too tired to solve.
If she kept to herself, I’d manage. But no. We never eat together—Oliver’s at work, the kids are off with friends, everyone fends for themselves. There’s one rule, though: clear your plate and wipe the crumbs. Fine by me—I’ll wash up. But Margaret ignores it entirely. She leaves her dirty dishes on the cluttered table and strolls off like it’s nothing. Every single time. She’s set in her ways, and I’ve stopped hoping she’ll change. I clean the whole house, but I won’t set foot in her room—I dread the mess I’d find.
She doesn’t even know how to turn on the hoover. Once in a blue moon, she’ll grab a broom and make a half-hearted sweep, but it’s such a rare performance, it feels staged. At least she does her own laundry—small mercies. I’ve complained to Oliver, but he just shrugs. “Mum hasn’t been the same since Dad passed. She’s withdrawn.” Withdrawn? She’s the life of the party at the office! Do I really disgust her that much? The worst part? She’s indifferent to her own grandchildren.
I always thought grandmothers spoiled their grandkids—sweets, games, attention. Margaret’s the exception. She won’t play with them, won’t give them so much as the time of day. I tried talking to her once, but it was a farce. She stared at me like I was some petulant schoolgirl and kept saying, “You live under my roof.” In her mind, because Oliver brought me here, my job is to pop out babies and wait on everyone. She says, dead serious, that a wife’s duty is to keep house and that I should feel “blessed” to have floors to scrub. She sneers that I don’t work—”so young, so idle”—while boasting about her own part-time pensioner’s job.
She does chip in for groceries, but I doubt it’s much, given her hours. Oliver manages the household budget, but I don’t bother telling her how I spend my days—cooking, cleaning, ironing, raising children. We could compare workloads, but she doesn’t care. The talk went nowhere. She thinks she has the right to order me about because I’m “the outsider.” And as for spoiling the grandkids? “That’s the parents’ job,” she says.
I’m running out of patience. What do I do? Play along, pretending everything’s fine—that I’ve got not two children, but three, with the eldest a spoiled old woman? Or do I fight? Tell Oliver everything, confront her again, demand change? Maybe I could earn some respect, stop feeling like the hired help. But what if it just ends in shouting?
I can’t take much more. It’s exhausting. Is it even worth fighting for my place in this house? I want to believe it is.