I’m Not the Mother-in-Law’s Maid
Washing floors in my in-laws’ house? No, thank you—I’ve no desire for that! At eight-and-thirty, I, Margaret, decided it was high time to live for myself, not to scurry about with a mop in their sprawling manor. My husband’s parents, Harold and Eleanor Whitmore, are two-and-ninety and three-and-eighty, respectively, and of course, they’re no longer fit to manage the household alone. My husband, Edward, their only son, was born when they were already past forty, and now everyone looks to me as their chief rescuer. But I never signed up to be their maid! The townsfolk gossip, the in-laws drop hints, but I stand firm: enough is enough. My time is my own, full stop.
Edward and I have been married ten years, and all this while, I’ve strived to be a good daughter-in-law. The Whitmores aren’t unkind, but they’re difficult. Harold, despite his years, is still spry—he walks with a cane, reads the papers, and loves recounting tales of his youth. Eleanor is frailer, mostly perched in her armchair, knitting or watching telly. Their home—large, ancient, with creaking wooden floors and too many rooms—they stubbornly refuse to let out or sell. “This is our nest,” they say. And I wouldn’t mind, if their “nest” hadn’t become my burden.
When we first wed, I often visited, helping with cleaning, cooking, driving them to the doctor. It didn’t trouble me then—I thought it temporary, while they still had strength. But as the years passed, their expectations grew. Now, every visit, Eleanor sighs, “Oh, Margaret dear, the floors could use a wash—it’s ever so dusty.” And Harold adds, “Aye, lass, you’ve a good hand for housekeeping.” Housekeeping? I’m a marketing manager with two children, a mortgage, and a dozen tasks of my own. When am I meant to be their charwoman?
Lately, matters reached breaking point. We visited last weekend, and scarcely had I stepped inside when Eleanor pressed a bucket and rag into my hands. “Margaret, do the floors, won’t you? My knees ache something awful.” I was stunned—was I now hired help? Politely, I refused. “Eleanor, I’ve my own back pain, and much to do besides.” She pursed her lips, and Harold muttered, “Young folk these days—bone idle.” Idle? Between fetching the children from school, checking homework, and bolting down supper, where’s the idleness?
I told Edward I’d not scrub their floors again. He, ever the peacemaker, said, “Meg, they’re elderly. What’s one more wash?” One? It’s never just once! I reminded him they’ve a tidy pension—they could hire help. But Edward only sighed. “You know they won’t have strangers in.” Won’t have strangers? Yet I, apparently, am not a stranger—just their unpaid drudge. I set my terms: either we hire a maid, or their floors stay dirty. Edward promised to speak to them, but I know he’ll soften—he always does.
The neighbours, of course, have taken notice. In our village, word spreads faster than the wind. Just yesterday, Mrs. Hodges from down the lane cornered me at the market. “Margaret, how can you neglect them poor dears? They’ve done so much for Edward!” I nearly retorted, “And what of what I do for Edward and our children?” Why must I devote my life to their home? I respect Harold and Eleanor, but I’m not their housemaid. I’ve my own family, my own dreams—yoga classes, holidays with the children, a quiet hour with a book, free from thoughts of dusty floors.
I proposed a compromise: we’d help with errands, doctor’s visits, but cleaning wasn’t my duty. Eleanor scowled. “Margaret, must you bring outsiders into our home?” And Harold added, “We thought you’d be like a daughter to us.” A daughter, not a scullery maid! I held my tongue, but inside, I seethed. Why must no one consider my feelings? All my life, I’ve aimed to please—now I want to live for myself. Is that so wrong?
My friend, when I confided in her, said, “Margaret, you’re right. Set boundaries, or they’ll run you ragged.” So I have. No more rags, no more buckets. If the Whitmores want clean floors, let them hire help or ask Edward—though he’s no keener on scrubbing than I am. Odd, how the burden falls to me alone. Some days, I even think of moving away, just to escape these demands. For now, I’m learning to say “no.” And you know? It’s freeing.
Let the neighbours whisper. Let the in-laws grumble. I’ll not be the daughter-in-law who burns herself out for others’ approval. Harold and Eleanor have lived long lives—they’re strong. But I’m not their shadow; I’ve my own path. If that means refusing to mop their floors, so be it. My time has come, and I’ll not spend it on pails and mops. As for Edward—let him choose: his wife and children, or his parents’ expectations.
