He’s asking me to move into his family home—but I refuse to be their unpaid maid.
My name’s Sophie, I’m twenty-six. My husband, James, and I have been married nearly two years. We live in Bristol, in a cosy two-bed flat I inherited from my Nan. At first, everything was fine—James never minded living in my place, said it suited him just right. But out of the blue the other day, he hit me with: “We ought to move back to my family’s place—it’s got space, and when we have kids, there’ll be room for them to run about.”
Except I don’t want to “run about” under the same roof as his noisy, overbearing family. I won’t trade my own flat for a house ruled by old-school patriarchy and blind obedience, where I’d be less of a wife and more of a free housekeeper.
I remember my first visit to their place—a massive detached house on the outskirts, easily 3,000 square feet. His parents live there, along with his younger brother, William, his wife, Emily, and their three kids. The whole package. The second I stepped inside, they made sure I knew my place. Women to the kitchen, men to the telly. I hadn’t even unpacked my bag before his mum shoved a knife into my hands and told me to chop the salad. No “please,” no “if you don’t mind”—just orders.
And at dinner, I watched Emily scurry around, never daring to speak back to his mum. Every demand was met with a guilty smile and a nod. It made my blood run cold. I knew right then—that would never be me. I’m no meek little Emily, and I won’t bend to please anyone.
When James and I were leaving, his mum barked, “Who’s going to clear these dishes, then?” I turned, looked her dead in the eye, and said, “Hosts clean up after their guests. We’re guests, not hired help.”
Well, that set off a storm. They called me ungrateful, rude, some spoiled city girl. But all I could think was: I’ll never belong here.
James backed me up then. We left. For six months, things were quiet—he dealt with his family while I stayed out of it. But then the talks about moving started. First hints, then pushing harder.
“There’s space there—family,” he’d say. “Mum can help with the kids, you’ll have time to relax. And we could rent your flat—extra income.”
“What about my job?” I shot back. “I’m not giving up everything to live in some village 25 miles from town. What will I even do there?”
“You won’t need to work,” he shrugged. “You’ll have babies, keep the house—like all women should.”
That was the last straw. I’m educated, I’ve built a career, I have my own goals. I work as an editor—I love my job, I’ve earned my place. And now I’m being told my “proper role” is cooking and nappies? In a house where they’ll shout at me for a dirty pan and lecture me on how to birth babies and stir soup?
I know James is a product of his upbringing. In his world, sons carry the family name, and wives should be grateful just to sit at the table. But I don’t swallow insults. I stayed quiet when his mum belittled me. I bit my tongue when his brother smirked, “Our Emily never complains!” But I won’t stay quiet anymore.
I told James straight: “Either we live separately and respect boundaries, or you go back to your family manor—without me.”
He got upset. Said I’d destroy our marriage. That in his family, sons don’t live “on someone else’s turf.” Well, tough. My flat isn’t “someone else’s.” And my voice isn’t just noise.
I don’t want a divorce. But I won’t live under his family’s thumb, either. If he doesn’t drop this idea of moving me in next to Mummy Dearest, I’ll be the one packing my bags. Because I’d rather be alone than come second to his family.
