He calls me back to the family home—but I have no desire to become his household’s servant.
My name is Emily Whitmore, and I’m twenty-six. My husband, James, and I have been married for nearly two years. We live in a cosy two-bed flat in Brighton that I inherited from my grandmother. At first, everything was peaceful—James never objected to living in my place, and it suited him just fine. Then, out of the blue, he announced: *“It’s time we moved to my family home—it’s spacious, and when we have kids, they’ll have room to run about.”*
But I don’t want to “run about” beneath the same roof as his boisterous relatives. I won’t trade my own flat for a domain ruled by rigid patriarchy and blind obedience, where I’m not a wife but a free labourer.
I remember my first visit to their house too well. A sprawling countryside manor on the outskirts—three hundred square metres, at least. His parents live there, along with his younger brother, Oliver, Oliver’s wife, Charlotte, and their three children. A full house. The moment I stepped inside, my role was made clear: women to the kitchen, men to the telly. I hadn’t even unpacked when his mother pressed a knife into my hand and told me to chop the salad. No *“please”*, no *“if you don’t mind”*—just an order.
At dinner, I watched Charlotte scurry back and forth, never daring to argue, just meek nods and nervous smiles at every demand. It shook me to the core. *That* will never be me. I’m no silent Charlotte, and I refuse to bend.
When we were leaving, his mother shouted after us: *“And who’s going to wash the dishes?”* I turned, met her gaze, and said: *“Hosts clean up after their guests. We were guests, not unpaid staff.”*
Outraged cries followed. I was called ungrateful, brash, a spoiled city girl. But all I could think was: *this will never be my home.*
James backed me then. We left. For six months, things were quiet—he handled his family while I stayed clear. But then the talk of moving began—first hints, then insistence.
*“There’s space there, family,”* he’d say. *“Mum will help with the kids; you won’t be so burdened. And we can rent out your flat—extra income.”*
*“And my job?”* I asked. *“I won’t abandon everything to live forty miles from the nearest city. What would I even do there?”*
*“You won’t need to work,”* he shrugged. *“Have a baby, tend the house—like everyone else. A woman belongs at home.”*
That was the final straw. I’m a woman with a degree, a career, ambitions. I’m an editor—I love my work, built it from nothing. And now I’m told my place is by the stove, with nappies and scolding for unwashed pans? In a house where they’ll lecture me on proper childbirth and soup-making?
I know James is a product of his upbringing—where sons carry the name and wives are outsiders who should keep quiet and be grateful for a seat at the table. But I won’t swallow my grievances. I stayed silent when his mother belittled me, silent when Oliver sneered: *“Our Charlotte never complains!”* But I won’t stay silent now.
I told James plainly: *“Either we live separately, respecting boundaries, or you go back to your ancestral manor without me.”*
He sulked. Said I was breaking the family apart, that in his lineage, sons don’t live “on foreign ground.” I don’t care. My flat isn’t *foreign.* And my voice isn’t background noise.
I don’t want a divorce. But living under his clan’s rule? Not an option. If he doesn’t drop the fantasy of settling me beside his mother, I’ll be the one packing first. Because I’d rather be alone than second to his family.
