Life Under the Tyrant’s Thumb
When life backed my husband and me into a corner, we had no choice but to move in with his father in a sleepy little town near Manchester. At first, it seemed like a temporary fix, but within months, I knew I couldn’t last a year under the same roof as that man. I felt like a servant in the house of a petty dictator, and now, even if we end up eating nothing but toast, I’ll never go back. His treatment of me shattered any hope of peaceful cohabitation.
My husband’s parents had divorced years ago. He was raised by his father, Nigel Whitmore, while his mother had remarried and vanished from their lives. Maybe that’s why Nigel had such disdain for women. When we first met, he struck me as just a grumpy old codger—surly, but harmless. Out of respect for raising my husband single-handedly, I tried to get along with him. No luck.
We didn’t own a flat. We’d been renting a tiny room in Manchester, saving up, but then I got pregnant, and our plans fell apart. Money was tight, and with the baby due soon, we reluctantly asked Nigel if we could stay with him. Within days, I regretted it, as if I’d somehow sensed the fresh hell awaiting me.
I’d never known so much housework existed. Cleaning, cooking, ironing—it all landed on me like I wasn’t eight months pregnant but some indentured skivvy. My back ached, my feet swelled, but rest was out of the question. I still dragged myself to work to scrape together a few more pounds before maternity leave, only to come home to an endless to-do list.
“Think you’re the Queen of Sheba?” Nigel would bark if I dared sit on the sofa or lie down when exhaustion hit. “Being up the duff isn’t an illness! No one’s running round with a mop for you!”
Clenching my teeth, I’d haul myself up again—scrubbing floors, dusting shelves, washing windows, tackling corners that hadn’t seen a hoover in years. Nigel had no mercy. He nitpicked over everything, inventing new chores until I dropped, and only when my husband, Oliver, wasn’t home. I tried lingering outside to avoid his tirades, but it never worked.
“I’m home from work—where’ve you been loafing about?” he’d yell if dinner wasn’t ready. “Floors filthy, crumbs underfoot, and she’s off gallivanting!”
His words cut like knives. He belittled me at every turn, and I kept quiet, not wanting to burden Oliver, who was already working two jobs to keep us afloat. I tried handling Nigel myself, hoping he’d warm up. Instead, his complaints snowballed. Soup too bland. Plate not spotless. Bedding folded wrong. Sometimes his gripes were so ludicrous I nearly laughed. I mopped twice a day, ironed his shirts alongside ours—like some unpaid housemaid.
“Why should I lift an iron when there’s a woman in the house?” he’d bellow. “If my son married a useless lump, he should divorce her! Lazing about all day!”
Living with Nigel, I understood why his wife had bolted the moment their son was born. Enduring him was beyond human capacity. I developed a grudging respect for the woman who’d lasted even a few years—she was a saint. But one day, I reached my limit.
I was scrubbing a pot in the kitchen when Nigel marched in, launching into another lecture on how I “couldn’t do anything right.” His contemptuous tone was the last straw. I slammed the pot into the sink, dried my hands, and wordlessly went to pack. Better to live on beans than let that tyrant grind me into dust. I wasn’t just thinking of myself—our baby didn’t need that toxic chaos.
“Piss off, then!” he roared after me, hurling curses.
Just then, Oliver walked in. Seeing me in tears, he barely held back from throttling his father. I steered him away, and the next day, we rented a shoebox of a room. Oliver hasn’t spoken to Nigel since. The old man sent a few venomous texts, accusing his son of “choosing some bird over family.” That was the final straw—Oliver cut ties for good.
I still don’t know how such a man raised a kind, caring son. Maybe Nigel grew bitter from loneliness or jealousy, but I’ve no energy to psychoanalyse him. We’re done with him, and I hope it stays that way.
