He asked me to move in with his parents, but I refused to become their maid.
He invited me to live in the family home, but I wont be the unpaid help for his entire clan.
My name is Emily, 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, it suited him perfectly. But the other day, out of the blue, he dropped the bombshell: “Its time we moved into my family home. Theres plenty of space, and when we have children, itll be perfect.”
Except I dont want that kind of “perfect” 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 I wont trade my own home for a place ruled by outdated traditions and blind obedience.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 free labour.
I remember my first visit to their house clearly. A sprawling countryside home on the outskirts, at least 3,000 square feet. His parents live there, along with his younger brother, Oliver, his wife, Charlotte, and their three children. The full package. The moment I stepped inside, my role was assigned. Women in the kitchen, men in front of the telly. I hadnt even finished unpacking when his mother handed me a knife and ordered, “Chop the salad.” No “please,” no “whenever youre ready.” Just a command.
During dinner, I watched Charlotte rush around, never daring to contradict her mother-in-law. Every remark was met with a guilty smile and a nod. It chilled me. I knew right thenthis wasnt the life for me. No chance. Im no obedient Charlotte, and I wont bend.
When we announced we were leaving, his mother screeched, “Whos going to do the washing up?” I looked her straight in the eye and said, “Guests dont clean up after hosts. 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 quiet. He visited his family without me, and I was fine with it. But now, hes bringing up the move again. First hints, then more insistent.
“Its family there, its home,” he repeats. “Mum can help with the kids, youll have a break. And we can rent out your flatextra income.”
“What about my job?” I shot back. “I wont give up everything to bury myself 25 miles from Manchester. What would I even do there?”
“You wont need to work,” he shrugged. “Youll have a baby, youll manage 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 it myself. And now Im told my place is behind a stove and a nappy bin? In a house where Ill be shouted at for an unwashed pan and lectured on making soup or giving 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 insults. I bit my tongue when his mother humiliated me. I clenched my fists when Oliver sneered, “Charlotte never complains!” But now, Im done.
I told him plainly: “Either we live separately, with respect, or you go back to your family estate without me.”
He sulked. Accused me of breaking the family. Said a son shouldnt 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 tribe? Not a chance. 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.
**Some homes arent made of brickstheyre made of respect. And I wont trade mine for a gilded cage.**
