He invites me to live with his parents, but I refuse to become their servant.
My name is Emily, and Im twenty-six. My husband, James, and I have been married for nearly two years. We live in London, in a cosy little flat I inherited from my grandmother. At first, everything was fineJames was happy living with me; it suited him perfectly. But the other day, out of the blue, he announced, Its time we moved into my family home. Theres plenty of space, and when we have children, itll be ideal.
Except I dont want that kind of ideal under the same roof as his loud, overbearing family. I wont trade my own home for a place ruled by outdated traditions and blind obedience. There, I wouldnt be his wifeId be unpaid help.
I remember my first visit to their house vividly. A sprawling countryside home on the outskirts, at least 3,000 square feet. His parents live there, along with his younger brother, Tom, his wife, Charlotte, and their three children. The full package. The moment I stepped inside, my role was made clear. The women in the kitchen, the men in front of the telly. I hadnt even finished unpacking when his mother shoved a knife into my hand and ordered, Chop the salad. No please, no whenever youre ready. Just a command.
At dinner, I watched Charlotte rush around, never daring to disagree with her mother-in-law. Every criticism was met with a guilty smile and a nod. It chilled me. I knew right thenthat life wasnt for me. No chance. Im not some obedient Charlotte, and I wont bend.
When we announced we were leaving, his mother shrieked,
And whos going to do the washing-up?
I looked her straight in the eye and said,
Hosts clean up after their guests. Were guests, not staff.
Thats when it exploded. They called me ungrateful, insolent, a spoiled city girl. I listened calmly, thinking: *Here, Ill never belong.*
James backed me that day. We left. For six months, things were peaceful. He visited his family without me, and I was fine with that. But now, hes bringing up the move againfirst hints, then outright demands.
Its family thereits home, he repeats. Mum can help with the kids, youll have support. And we can rent out your flatextra income.
What about my job? I shot back. I wont throw everything away to be stranded 25 miles from London. What would I even do out there?
You wont need to work, he shrugged. Youll have a baby, look after the house, like everyone else. A womans place is at home.
The final straw. Im a university graduate with a career and ambitions. Im an editorI love my job, Ive built my life myself. And now Im told my place is behind a stove and nappies? In a house where Id be scolded for an unwashed pan and lectured on how to make soup or give birth properly?
I know James is a product of his upbringing. There, sons carry on the family name, and wives are outsiders who should keep quiet and be grateful theyre allowed in. But Im not the type to swallow my pride. I bit my tongue when his mother belittled me. I clenched my fists when Tom sneered, *Charlotte* never complains! But now, enoughs enough.
I told him plainly:
Either we live separately, with respect, or you go back to your family estate without me.
He got defensive. Accused me of tearing the family apart. Said a son shouldnt live on foreign soil. But I dont care. My flat isnt foreign. And my voice matters.
I dont want a divorce. But living with his clan? Not a chance. If he doesnt drop this idea of moving me next to his mum, Ill pack my bags first. Because being alone is better than being second to his family.
Some traditions arent worth keepingespecially the ones that erase who you are.
