He calls me to his family home—but I refuse to be their maid.
My name is Emily, I’m twenty-six. My husband, James, and I have been married nearly two years. We live in Manchester, in a cosy two-bed flat I inherited from my grandmother. At first, everything was peaceful. James had no objections to living in my place; it suited him fine. But then, out of the blue, he dropped the bomb: “It’s time we moved back to my family home. Plenty of space, kids one day—room to spread out.”
But I don’t want to “spread out” under the same roof as his loud, overbearing family. I won’t trade my own flat for a house ruled by blind obedience and old-fashioned nonsense. A place where I’m not a wife—but unpaid help.
I remember my first visit there. A massive detached house on the outskirts—3,000 square feet, at least. His parents lived there, along with his younger brother, Liam, his wife, Sophie, and their three kids. The whole package. The second I stepped inside, they made my role clear. Women in the kitchen, men in front of the telly. Before I’d even unpacked my bag, his mother shoved a knife into my hands and ordered me to chop salad. No “please,” no “would you mind?” Just demands.
And at dinner, I watched Sophie scurry back and forth without protest, never daring to contradict her mother-in-law. Every question was met with a guilty smile and a nod. It chilled me to the bone. I knew then—I’d never accept that fate. Not me. I’m no meek little Sophie. I won’t bend.
When James and I got ready to leave, his mother barked, “Who’s doing the washing up, then?” I turned, looked her dead in the eye, and said, “Hosts clean up after guests. We’re guests, not hired help.”
Outrage followed. I was called ungrateful, rude, some spoiled city girl who didn’t know her place. And all I could think was—this place will never be mine.
James backed me then. We left. For six months, things were quiet. He dealt with his family—I stayed out of it. But then the pressure started. First hints, then outright insistence.
“There’s space there, family,” he’d say. “Mum can help with the kids, you’ll get a break. Rent out your flat—extra income.”
“What about my job?” I’d ask. “I’m not quitting to move to some village 25 miles from the city. What would I even do there?”
“You wouldn’t need to work,” he shrugged. “Have a baby, take care of the house, like normal. A woman’s place is at home.”
That was the last straw. I’m educated, ambitious, with my own career. I’m an editor—I love my work, I’ve earned my success. And now he tells me my place is at the stove, washing nappies in a house where they’d scream at me over an unwashed pot, lecturing me on proper mothering and soup recipes?
I know James is a product of his upbringing. Where sons are heirs, and wives are outsiders—meant to stay quiet and be grateful for a seat at the table. But I’m not one to swallow my pride. I stayed silent when his mother belittled me. I bit my tongue when Liam sneered, “Sophie never talks back!” But I won’t be silent anymore.
I made it clear: “Either we live alone and respect each other’s boundaries, or you go back to your ancestral mansion without me.”
He sulked. Said I was tearing the family apart. That in his family, men don’t live “on a woman’s turf.” I don’t care. My flat isn’t just “turf.” My voice isn’t nothing.
I don’t want a divorce. But I won’t live under his family’s thumb. If he doesn’t drop the idea of moving me into his mother’s shadow, I’ll be the one packing first. Because I’d rather be alone than come second to his kin.
