— And You Needn’t Sit at the Table—You Ought to Serve Us! My Mother-in-Law Declared. I stood by the stove in the quiet morning kitchen—rumpled pyjamas, hair hastily pinned up. The smell of toasted bread and strong coffee filled the air. On the stool by the table sat my seven-year-old daughter, nose buried in her scrapbook, carefully drawing colourful swirls with felt pens. “Are you making those diet toasts again?” came a voice behind me. I jumped. At the door stood my mother-in-law—a woman with a stone face and a voice that allowed no debate. She wore a dressing gown, hair pulled into a bun, lips pressed tight. “Just so you know, yesterday I had whatever I found for lunch! No soup, no proper food. Can you make eggs? Like a decent person, not those… modern fads of yours!” I switched off the stove and opened the fridge. Tight anger twisted in my chest, but I swallowed it. Not in front of my child. Not in a place where every inch seemed to repeat to me: “You’re only here temporarily.” “It’ll be ready in a moment,” I replied, forcing myself to turn away so she couldn’t see my trembling voice. My daughter didn’t lift her eyes from the felt pens, but at the corner of her gaze, she watched Grandma—quiet, wary, alert. “We’ll Stay with My Mum” When my husband suggested moving in with his mother, it sounded logical at first. “We’ll stay with her—just for a little while. Two months maximum. It’s close to work and our mortgage will be approved soon. She’s not opposed.” I hesitated. Not because I was in conflict with my mother-in-law. We’d always been polite to one another. But I knew the truth: two adult women sharing a kitchen is a minefield. And my mother-in-law had an obsessive need for order, control, and moral judgement. But there was almost no choice. We’d sold our old flat quickly and the new one wasn’t ready yet. So the three of us moved into my mother-in-law’s two-bedroom flat. “Just temporarily.” Control Became a Daily Routine The first few days were calm. My mother-in-law was pointedly polite, even added an extra chair for the child and treated us to pie. But on the third day, the “rules” began. “In my home, things are done properly,” she announced at breakfast. “Up at eight. Shoes only on the rack. Groceries must be agreed upon. Keep the TV quiet—I’m sensitive to noise.” My husband smiled and brushed it off: “Mum, we’re only here for a little while. We’ll cope.” I nodded silently. But “we’ll cope” soon started to sound like a sentence. I Began to Disappear One week passed. Then another. The regime got stricter. My mother-in-law removed my child’s drawings from the table—”They’re in the way.” She took off my gingham tablecloth—”It’s impractical.” My cornflakes vanished from the shelf—”They’ve been there forever, must be off.” She “moved” my shampoo—”Don’t want it cluttering up the place.” I felt less like a guest, more like someone without a voice or a right to exist. My food was “wrong.” My habits—”unnecessary.” My child—”too noisy.” And my husband kept repeating: “Just stick it out. It’s Mum’s place. She’s always been like this.” Day by day, I lost myself. Less and less remained of the calm, confident woman I used to be. Now, there was just endless adjusting and silent endurance. Life by Someone Else’s Rules Every morning, I woke up at six to get to the bathroom first, cook porridge, get my child ready… and avoid my mother-in-law’s wrath. Each evening, I made two dinners—one for us, one “to her standard”. No onions. Then with onions. Then only in her saucepan. Then only with her frying pan. “I don’t want much,” she’d say reproachfully. “Just decency. The proper way.” The Day My Humiliation Became Public One morning, just as I’d finished washing my face and switching on the kettle, my mother-in-law entered the kitchen—without any concern for privacy. “Today my friends are coming. Two o’clock. You’re at home, so you’ll set the table. Pickles, salad, something for tea—just the usual.” “Just the usual” meant a feast. “But—I didn’t know. Groceries…” “You’ll buy them. I’ve made you a shopping list. Nothing complicated.” I got dressed and headed to the shop. Brought back everything: chicken, potatoes, dill, apples for pie, biscuits. Returned home and started cooking non-stop. By two, everything was ready—table set, chicken roasted, salad crisp, pie golden. Three pensioners arrived—prim, curled hair, wearing perfume from another era. Within moments, I realised I wasn’t “part of the group.” I was “the help.” “Come, come… sit here, next to us,” mother-in-law smiled. “So you can serve us.” “Serve you?” I repeated. “What’s the problem? We’re getting on. It’s not hard for you.” So here I was again—tray in hand, spoons, bread. “Pass the tea, dear.” “I need more sugar.” “We’re out of salad.” “The chicken’s a bit dry,” one muttered. “You’ve overbaked the pie,” said another. I clenched my teeth. Smiled. Cleared plates. Poured tea. No one asked if I wanted to sit. Or just breathe for a moment. “Isn’t it wonderful, having a young housewife?” my mother-in-law said with feigned warmth. “Everything depends on her!” And suddenly… something broke inside me. That Evening, I Told the Truth When the guests finally left, I washed all the dishes, packed away leftovers, washed the tablecloth. Then I sat at the end of the sofa, empty cup in hand. Darkness crept in outside. My child slept, curled like a ball. My husband sat next to me—immersed in his phone. “Listen…” I said quietly, but firmly. “I can’t do this anymore.” He glanced up, surprised. “We live like strangers. I’m just someone who serves everyone. And you… do you notice?” He said nothing. “This isn’t home. It’s a life where I’m constantly adjusting and staying silent. It’s me and the child in this. I don’t want months more of this. I’m tired of being convenient and invisible.” He nodded… slowly. “I understand… Forgive me for not seeing it before. We’ll find somewhere else to rent. Anything—as long as it’s our own.” We began searching that same night. Our Own Home—Even If Small The flat was tiny. The landlord’s old furniture was left behind. The linoleum squeaked. But when I crossed the threshold… I felt lightness. As if I finally got my voice back. “Here we are,” my husband sighed, dropping the bags. My mother-in-law didn’t say a word. Didn’t try to stop us. I didn’t know if she was hurt, or just realised she’d gone too far. A week passed. Mornings started with music. My child drew on the floor. My husband brewed coffee. I watched—and smiled. No stress. No rushing. No “just cope.” “Thank you,” he said one morning, hugging me. “For not staying quiet.” I looked him in the eyes: “Thank you for hearing me.” Life wasn’t perfect now. But it was our home. Our rules. Our noise. Our lives. And it was real. ❓But what about you: if you were in her place, would you have stuck it out “just for a while,” or would you have left after the first week?