The Hunger Regiment: Why I’m Escaping Life Under My Mother-in-Law’s Roof
I never imagined my life would one day resemble a strict military camp, where every move is monitored and stepping out of line is punished—by hunger. Yet that’s exactly how I feel now, trapped in a place where I have no say, no choice, all because my husband and I are temporarily living with his mother.
On the surface, it shouldn’t be a big deal—just another young couple trying to save for their own home. Oliver and I truly wanted to stand on our own feet, secure a mortgage, and eventually move into our own cozy nest. While we prepared, his mother stayed with his sister, helping with her newborn, leaving us her three-bedroom house. Back then, I had no idea what awaited us when she decided to return.
Life without her was peaceful. I kept the place spotless, ensuring she wouldn’t find fault when she came back. Everything gleamed, the pots shone like mirrors, the cupboards were perfectly symmetrical. But it turned out she didn’t care about cleanliness—only routine. Breakfast at 7:30 sharp. Dinner before eight. Miss it? Too bad. No food for you.
I work as a designer, and some nights I’m up till dawn—last-minute projects, edits, deadlines. Occasionally, my boss lets me come in late. But if I step into the kitchen past 10 AM, the fridge is slammed shut in my face. According to my mother-in-law, I “slept through breakfast,” so I don’t get to eat. Even if it’s food I bought! Even if it’s my own yogurt or sandwich.
Dinner follows the same rules. Oliver and I often come home late, but eating without him is forbidden. And if he returns after eight? He goes to bed hungry. Why? Because “it’s not on schedule.” When I tried explaining that adults eat when they please, I was told, “In *my* house, *my* rules.” Oh, and we pay half the bills—but who cares?
The bathroom? Now, that’s another battle. I like unwinding in a warm bath after a long day. But no—bathing in daylight is unacceptable. “Water’s expensive,” “You should be productive, not lounging.” If I lock the door, she’ll knock—or worse, try to open it. Yes, really. It’s beyond absurd.
Weekends are torture. Sleep past ten? Breakfast is off the table, day ruined. “Young people these days, lazy as anything!” she grumbles, slamming cupboards. I’m not relaxing anymore—I’m surviving.
Oliver grew up with this. To him, it’s just “how Mum is.” But not to me. I refuse to bend to someone who won’t even let me eat a spoonful of porridge because “time’s up.”
I won’t wake to an alarm like a schoolgirl denied soup for being late. I won’t beg for a bath or justify skipping breakfast at dawn. I’m a grown woman. I pay my way. I work. I’m a *person*, for heaven’s sake.
I’ve given Oliver an ultimatum: we move back to our flat, or I leave. I’m not his mother’s enemy, but I’m not her prisoner, either. I want to *live*, not exist by a timer.
Sometimes you must lose comfort to find freedom. And I’m ready. Because life isn’t a spreadsheet or a drill sergeant’s command. I’d rather be happy than “on time.”
