So, my partner, James, asked me to move into his family home, but Im not about to become their live-in maid.
Im Charlotte, twenty-six, married to James for nearly two years. We live in Manchester, in a cosy little flat I inherited from my nan. At first, it was perfectJames was happy living here, no complaints. Then out of the blue, he drops this bomb: Its time we moved into the family house. Plenty of space, and when we have kids, itll be ideal.
Except, his idea of ideal sounds like my nightmaretrapped under the same roof as his loud, overbearing family. Id be swapping my independence for a life of unpaid labour under their old-fashioned rules. Over there, I wouldnt be his wife; Id be free help.
I remember my first visit like it was yesterday. A massive countryside house on the outskirts, at least 3,000 square feet. His parents, his younger brother Ollie, his wife Emily, and their three kids all under one roof. The second I walked in, my role was assignedwomen in the kitchen, men in front of the telly. I hadnt even unpacked when his mum shoved a knife at me and snapped, Chop the salad. No please, no whenever youre ready. Just an order.
At dinner, I watched Emily rush around, never daring to disagree with her mother-in-law. Every criticism met with a guilty smile and a nod. It chilled me. I knew right thenthats not the life for me. No chance. Im not some meek little Emily, and I wont bend.
When we said we were leaving, his mum screeched, Whos doing the dishes then? I looked her dead in the eye and said, Guests dont clean up after hosts. Were guests, not staff.
Well, that set them off. They called me ungrateful, rude, a spoiled city girl. I just sat there, calm as anything, thinking: *Ill never belong here.*
James backed me that day. We left. For six months, it was quiet. He saw his family without me, and I was fine with that. But now hes bringing it up againhints at first, then full-on pressure.
Its family, he keeps saying. Its home. Mum could help with the kids, give you a break. And we could rent out your flatextra income.
What about my job? I shot back. Im not giving up my career to rot 25 miles from Manchester. What would I even do out there?
You wouldnt need to work, he shrugged. Youd have a baby, look after the house, like everyone else. A womans place is at home.
That was the last straw. Ive got a degree, a career, ambitions. Im an editorI love my job, built it myself. And now Im told my place is behind a stove or changing nappies? In a house where Id get scolded for an unwashed pan or lectured on how to make soup or push out a baby properly?
I get itJames is a product of his upbringing. Over there, sons carry on the family name, and wives are outsiders who should be grateful just to be allowed in. But Im not swallowing that. I bit my tongue when his mum humiliated me. I ignored Ollies smug digsEmily never complains! But enoughs enough.
I laid it out: We either live separately, with respect, or you go back to your family estate without me.
He got defensive. Said I was tearing the family apart. That a son doesnt live on foreign soil. But I dont care. My flat isnt foreign. And my voice matters.
I dont want a divorce. But living under his familys thumb? No way. If he doesnt drop this fantasy of moving me in next to Mummy, Ill pack my bags first. Because being alone beats being second to his family any day.
