“I can’t stand living in this house anymore. Just hearing her footsteps makes me feel ill,” confessed Sarah, a 28-year-old woman from Leeds. “I thought having a mother-in-law would be like having a second mum, but it’s turned out to be more of a test of endurance.”
Sarah and her husband, Tom, rented a flat right after they got married. They didn’t have the funds for their own place but dreamed of saving up. Then Tom’s mother, Margaret, chimed in, “Why are you paying rent to strangers when you could live with me? I have a three-bedroom house, and I’m all on my own. There’s more than enough room for everyone.” At first, Sarah saw it as a kind gesture, and moving in seemed sensible. For a while, everything was fine—until it wasn’t.
“Right from the start, she fancied herself the perfect hostess. She’d boast that in her forty years of marriage, not a single cucumber went to waste, and not a potato was ever thrown away. ‘Throwing food away is a sin,’ she says, repeating it like a mantra. We soon found out what she really meant by that…”
Every evening turned into a challenge. At the dinner table, she would proudly recount how she’d salvaged “a bit wilted cabbage” or how she’d marinated “slightly off” meat in vinegar, claiming, “Nobody noticed a thing.” Sarah admitted that after those dinners, she just didn’t want to eat—neither that nor breathe.
“I wanted to cook for myself,” she explained. “Just offer to help. But she took it as a personal affront. ‘This is my house, and I am the one in charge. Two cooks in one kitchen lead to arguments,’ she says. And if I dare to chop something, she hovers over, instructing, ‘Not like that! Not there!’ Then she storms off for a week and sulks. I get it—it’s her domain, and we’re living under her roof. But I’m not a servant. I’m a person too, and I have my own tastes. And health!”
Sarah and Tom didn’t earn much, so dining out was hardly an option. They were fortunate the office provided meals; otherwise, she’d be hungry. Yet, dinners and weekends still warranted her mother-in-law’s disdain if they dared to do something on their own.
“Once, Tom and I simply wanted to make a cup of tea and have a sandwich. Margaret heard the kettle and within minutes was in the kitchen, saying, ‘What, didn’t you invite me? Is it too much to ask for tea for three? Are you hiding from me now?’ And just like that, the evening was ruined. If she finds out we ate in the living room, just sandwiches, she scolds, ‘Aren’t you ashamed? I cook for you, and you act like strangers!’” Sarah lamented.
They tried buying groceries on their own, but that bombed as well. “She claims the fridge is shared, and dividing it is just asking for family breakdown. Since Tom was happy with her cooking before, she thinks I’ve spoiled him. And if he stays quiet to avoid hurting her feelings—well, that doesn’t concern her.”
“Plus, she’s always preserving. A hundred jars or so every season. We don’t eat them. She doesn’t either. Yet the balcony is crammed full! Old jars, rusty lids. I carefully suggested, ‘Maybe we could toss some out?’ and her reply was, ‘You can scrape off the mould, and it’ll be fine!’—and then she laughed. But honestly, it freaks me out. We might get food poisoning at some point. I don’t want my husband to fall ill just because his mum ‘doesn’t waste anything’. I have no idea how to stop this…”
In Sarah’s eyes, Margaret lived by the habits from the lean nineties. She genuinely thought throwing anything away was a crime, and anyone younger was “just spoiled.” Sarah was fed up with the constant jabs, the criticisms, and the unsolicited “advice.”
“Yes, we’re living off her generosity, and I’m grateful for a roof over our heads. But it’s just impossible to live in a house where you can’t even boil a kettle without an account of activity. I’m tired of eating food that doesn’t fill me, but leaves me anxious instead. I’m exhausted from having every step scrutinized as if I’m infringing on ‘foreign territory.’”
Sarah often caught herself wishing to leave. But the rent was too steep. She loved Tom, but he was caught in the middle. He stayed quiet, unwilling to rock the boat, silently pushing his wife to tolerate.
“I worry I’ll lose it one day. I’ll yell everything at her face. After which I’ll pack my bags and walk out. But where would I go? We can’t afford our own flat yet. I try to save, but it’s not enough. I know I should cut back… but not at this price. Because food is life. And peace of mind. And there’s neither here.”
What do you think—is this a generational thing? Or just a reluctance to understand one another? Why do some folks believe it’s essential not to waste food, even when it’s questionable, while others see it as neglecting health and life itself? How’s one meant to manage when they can’t even put a kettle on in their own kitchen?