I’m Not the In-Laws’ Maid
Wash the floors at my in-laws’ house? No thank you, not a chance! At thirty-eight, I, Emily, have decided it’s finally time to live for myself—not spend my days scrubbing their sprawling manor. My in-laws, Arthur and Margaret, are 92 and 83, respectively, and while they’re no spring chickens, they still expect me to be their household saviour. My husband, William, their only son, was born when they were already in their forties, and now everyone acts as though I’m contractually obliged to pick up a mop. But I never signed up to be their maid! The neighbours gossip, the in-laws drop hints, and I’ve had enough—my time is my own, full stop.
William and I have been married ten years, and for a decade, I’ve tried to be the perfect daughter-in-law. Arthur and Margaret aren’t cruel, just… traditional. Arthur, despite his age, is surprisingly spry—still hobbling about with his cane, reading the *Times*, and reminiscing about the war. Margaret’s frailer, mostly parked in her armchair, knitting or binge-watching *Coronation Street*. Their house is a massive, creaky old thing with hardwood floors and rooms they refuse to rent or sell. “It’s our nest,” they say. Fine, but must their nest become my chore list?
Early on, I helped willingly—cleaning, cooking, driving them to doctor’s appointments. I assumed it was temporary. But years passed, and their expectations ballooned. Now, every visit starts with Margaret sighing at the floors: “Oh, Emily darling, it’s so dusty,” while Arthur chimes in, “You’re so capable, love, you’ll sort it.” Capable? I’m a marketing manager with two kids, a mortgage, and a to-do list longer than the Thames. When did I become their on-call cleaner?
Last weekend was the final straw. We’d barely stepped inside when Margaret shoved a bucket into my hands: “Be a dear and mop, my knees are killing me.” I blinked. Was there a hidden employment contract I’d missed? I politely declined: “Sorry, Margaret, my back’s acting up, and I’ve got a mountain of work.” Cue the pursed lips and Arthur’s grumble: “Young people today—no work ethic.” Work ethic? I’m the one juggling school runs, spelling tests, and meals eaten standing up—but sure, *I’m* the lazy one.
I told William I was done playing Cinderella. Ever the diplomat, he sighed: “They’re old, Em. Can’t you just help this once?” Once? Try *every* time! I reminded him they’ve got pensions—they could hire help. But William just shrugged: “You know they won’t let strangers in.” Strangers? So *I’m* fair game? I drew a line: Either we hire a cleaner, or their floors stay filthy. William promised to talk to them, but let’s be real—he’ll cave.
Of course, the village grapevine’s buzzing. Miss Higgins from next door cornered me at the Tesco checkout: “Emily, love, how can you neglect poor Arthur and Margaret? They doted on William!” I nearly snapped: “And who’s doting on *my* family?” Why am I expected to martyr myself for their approval? I respect the old dears, but I’m not their skivvy. I’ve got yoga classes to book, beach holidays with the kids, and a novel I’ve been meaning to read—preferably without a mop in hand.
I offered a compromise: We’d handle groceries and doctor visits, but cleaning was off the table. Margaret looked scandalised: “You’d bring *outsiders* into our home?” Arthur added, “We thought of you as family.” Family, not free labour! It’s infuriating—no one considers *my* limits. My best friend put it bluntly: “Set boundaries, or they’ll trample you.” So I have. The mop’s retired. If they want spotless floors, they can ask William—who, funnily enough, isn’t volunteering.
Let the neighbours cluck. Let the in-laws complain. I won’t burn myself out for their nods of approval. Arthur and Margaret lived their lives; now it’s my turn. And if that means walking past a dusty floor without guilt, so be it. William can choose: his wife or his parents’ expectations. Either way, this Cinderella’s keeping her slippers on.
