He invites me to live with his family, but I refuse to be their maid.
My name is Emily, and Im twenty-six. My husband, James, and I have been married for nearly two years. We live in Manchester, in a cosy little flat I inherited from my grandmother. At first, everything was fineJames was happy living with me, perfectly content. But the other day, like a bolt from the blue, he dropped it on me: *”Its time we moved into my family home. Theres plenty of space, and when we have children, itll be perfect.”*
Except I dont want *his* idea of perfect under the same roof as his loud, overbearing family. I wont trade my home for a place ruled by outdated traditions and blind obedience.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 place vividly. A sprawling countryside house on the outskirts, at least 3,000 square feet. His parents live there, along with his younger brother, Thomas, his wife, Charlotte, and their three kids. The whole package. The moment I stepped through the door, my role was made clear. Women in the kitchen, men in front of the telly. I hadnt even unpacked before his mother shoved a knife into my hands and snapped, *”Chop the salad.”* No *please*, no *when youre ready*. Just an order.
At dinner, I watched Charlotte 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 thenthis wasnt the life for me. Not a chance. Im not some obedient Charlotte, and I wont bend.
When we said we were leaving, his mother shrieked, *”Whos going to do the washing-up?”*
I looked her dead in the eye and said, *”Guests dont clean up after hosts. Were guests, not staff.”*
That set them off. They called me ungrateful, rude, a spoiled city girl. I let them rant, calm as stone, thinking: *Ill never belong here.*
James stood by me that day. We left. For six months, things were quiet. He visited his family without me, and I was fine with that. But lately, hes brought up moving againhints at first, then more insistent.
*”Its family,”* he keeps saying. *”Its home. Mum could help with the kids, give you a break. And your flatwe could rent it out, extra income.”*
*”What about my job?”* I shot back. *”Im not giving up everything to bury myself forty miles from Manchester. What would I even do 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.”*
The final straw. I have a degree, a career, ambitions. Im an editorI love my work, built it myself. And now Im told my place is behind a stove and a nappy bin? In a house where Id be shouted at for an unwashed pan and lectured on making soup or *”birthing properly”*?
I know James is a product of his upbringing. There, sons carry on the family line, and wives are outsiders who should keep quiet and be grateful. But Im not the type to swallow insults. I bit my tongue when his mother humiliated me. I clenched my teeth when Thomas sneered, *”Charlotte never complains!”* But enough is enough.
I made it clear: *”Either we live separately, with respect, or you go back to your family estate without me.”*
He got defensive. Accused me of breaking the family apart. Said a son doesnt live on *”foreign ground.”* But I dont care. My flat isnt *foreign*. And my voice matters.
I dont want a divorce. But living with his clan? Not happening. If he doesnt drop this idea of moving me next to his mum, Ill be the first to pack my bags. Because being alone is better than being second to his family.
