You neednt sit at the table, dear. You ought to be serving us! announced my mother-in-law.
There I was, standing at the hob, in the silent haze of a morning kitchenhair in a half-hearted ponytail, pyjama bottoms crumpled and on their last legs. The air was thick with the scent of burnt toast and coffee strong enough to revive the recently departed.
On a stool by the kitchen table was my seven-year-old daughter, nose buried in her sketchbook, meticulously drawing colourful swirls with felt tips.
Are you making those diet toast things again? came the voice behind me.
I nearly jumped out of my slippers.
At the doorway stood my mother-in-lawher expression set in stone, her voice permitting no argument. Dressing gown fastened, hair in a bun tighter than my nerves, lips pursed as though the mere act of speaking pained her.
By the way, I ate whatever I fancied for lunch yesterday, she pressed on, snapping her tea towel on the edge of the table. No soup, nothing proper. Can you make eggs? Proper eggs, not those trendy concoctions!
I switched off the hob and opened the fridge. Inside my chest, a gut-tightening coil of irritation twisted. I swallowed it down. Not in front of the kid, and certainly not in a place where every square inch muttered, Youre just passing through.
Itll be ready soon, I managed, turning away so she wouldnt see my voice trembling.
My daughter didn’t look up from her pens, but I could see her watching her grandmother from the corner of her eyequiet, wary, poised for anything.
Well stay with Mum for a bit
When my husband suggested moving in with his mother, it all seemed perfectly reasonable.
Just for a bit, he said. Two months, tops. Its close to work, and the mortgage will come through soon. Shes fine with it.
I hesitated. Not because there was bad blood between me and my mother-in-lawnot at all. We were polite, impeccably so. But I knew the uncomfortable truth:
Two grown women in one kitchen? That’s just asking for trouble.
And my mother-in-law was the sort who needed order, control, and regular moral reviews the way most of us need tea in the morning.
But we had little choice.
Wed sold our old flat, and the new one was, well, still theoretical. So the three of us moved into her two-bedroom flat.
Just temporary.
Control became the daily bread
The first few days went by unscathed. My mother-in-law even put out an extra chair for my daughter and served up a generous slice of pie.
But on day three, the rules began to appear.
Theres order in my house, she announced over breakfast. Up at eight sharp. Shoes go in the rack. Shopping to be discussed. Television down lowIm very sensitive to noise.
My husband waved a hand and grinned.
Mum, its only for a bit. Well survive.
I nodded mutely.
But well survive began to sound more like a sentence.
I began to fade
A week passed, then another.
The regime only grew stricter.
My daughters drawings were cleared from the tableTheyre in the way.
The checked tablecloth Id laid out was stuffed in a drawerNot practical.
My cornflakes vanished from the cupboardBeen there ages. Probably off.
My shampoos were relocatedDont want them cluttering up the place.
I felt less like a guest and more like a voice-less, vote-less extra.
My food was wrong.
My habits unnecessary.
My childso noisy.
And my husband kept repeating, Just stick it out. Its Mums place. Shes always been this way.
Day by day, I lost myselfeach morning a little more of the woman who used to be calm and confident ebbed away.
Now it was just endless adjusting and enduring.
Life by someone elses rules
Each morning, I rose at six, just to get first dibs on the bathroom, cook porridge, sort the kidand avoid my mother-in-laws wrath.
Every evening I cooked two dinners.
One for us.
One proper for her.
No onions.
Then onions.
Then only her saucepan.
Then only her frying pan.
I dont ask for much, shed sigh, feigning patience. Just decency. The way things should be done.
The day humiliation went public
One morning, having just washed my face and switched on the kettle, my mother-in-law swept into the kitchen, as if forgetting other people existed.
My friends are coming round at two. Youre in, so youll get the table ready. Pickles, salad, something for teathe usual.
The usual for her meant the whole worksfit for a proper spread.
OhI didnt know. Groceries
Yes, youll buy. Ive made a list. Nothing complicated.
So off I trotted to Tesco.
I bought everything: chicken, potatoes, dill, apples for pie, digestives.
I returned and dove straight into cooking, no breathers.
By two oclock, everything was readythe table looked like something from Country Living, the chicken roasted, the salad crisp, the pie just the right shade of golden.
Then in wafted three pensionersblazers, perms, and the kind of perfume thats banned on public transport.
It took me roughly sixty seconds to realise I was not part of the company.
I was staff.
Come, dear, sit by us, coaxed my mother-in-lawso you can serve.
Serve?
Whats so difficult? Were elderly. You can manage.
So there I was again:
tray in hand, doling out teaspoons and bread.
Pass the tea, love.
Another sugar, if you please.
Could do with more salad.
The chickens a bit dry, one muttered.
And the pies overdone, another added.
I gritted my teeth, smiled tightly, collected plates, poured tea.
Nobody asked if Id like a seat.
Or a breather.
How lovely when theres a young housewife in the family, my mother-in-law crowed, oozing false warmth. Everything depends on her!
And just like that something in me quietly snapped.
That evening, I told the truth
When the guests finally left, I washed up, packed away the scraps, and tossed the tablecloth in the wash.
Then I sank onto the sofa, clutching an empty mug.
Outside, the sky was darkening.
My child was curled up asleep like a hedgehog.
My husband sat beside me, transfixed by his phone.
Listen I said, quiet but firm. I cant do this anymore.
He looked up, startled.
Were living as strangers. I feel like Im just here to serve everyone. And you do you even see it?
He didnt reply.
This isnt a home. Its a life where Im constantly bending and silent. Its me and the kid stuck in this. I dont want to endure more months. Im tired of being convenient and invisible.
He nodded slowly.
I get it Im sorry I didnt spot it earlier. Well look for a flat. Anything. Just for us.
And so, we started hunting that night.
Our own placeeven if tiny
The flat we found was compact to say the least. The landlord had left ancient furniture. The lino creaked in protest.
But when I stepped over the threshold I felt lighter. As if Id got my voice back.
Well we made it, my husband exhaled, dropping the bags.
My mother-in-law didnt say a word. Didnt try to stop us.
No idea whether she was miffed or simply realised shed gone too far.
A week passed.
Mornings now started with music.
My daughter drew on the floor.
My husband brewed coffee.
And I watched them, grinning.
No stress.
No rushing.
No more just endure it.
Thank you, he said one morning, hugging me. For not staying silent.
I met his eyes.
Thank you for hearing me.
Life wasnt perfect.
But this was our home.
With our rules.
Our laughter.
Our messy, noisy, lovely life.
And that felt real.
So, what do you think? If you were in her shoeswould you grin and bear it just for a bit, or would you leg it after week one?
