I’m Not the In-Laws’ Maid
Wash the floors at my in-laws’ house? Absolutely not, no thank you! I, Emily, at the ripe age of thirty-eight, have decided it’s high time I lived for myself instead of sprinting around their sprawling manor with a mop in hand. My in-laws, Arthur and Margaret, are ninety-two and eighty-three respectively, and of course, they’re not exactly spring chickens when it comes to keeping up with housework. My husband, William, their only son, was born when they were already in their forties, and now everyone looks at me like I’m their designated saviour. But I didn’t sign up to be their maid! The neighbours gossip, the in-laws drop hints, and I’ve drawn my line in the sand: enough is enough—my time is my own, full stop.
William and I have been married for ten years, and all this time I’ve tried to be the perfect daughter-in-law. Arthur and Margaret aren’t awful, just… set in their ways. Arthur, despite his age, is still spry—he toddles around with his walking stick, reads the papers, and loves regaling us with tales of his glory days. Margaret’s a bit frailer, mostly sits in her armchair knitting or binging telly. Their house is a proper old pile—hardwood floors, endless rooms they adamantly refuse to rent out or sell. “This is our nest,” they say. Fine, except their “nest” has become my never-ending chore list.
In the early days, I’d pop over often—hoovering, cooking, ferrying them to doctor’s appointments. I didn’t mind; I assumed it was temporary. But years passed, and their expectations ballooned. Now, every visit, Margaret sighs at the floors like a tragic heroine: “Oh, Emily love, it’s ever so dusty.” Arthur chimes in, “You’re such a dab hand at this, pet.” A dab hand? I’m a marketing manager with two kids, a mortgage, and a to-do list longer than the Thames. When exactly am I their housekeeper?
Things came to a head last weekend. We’d barely stepped inside when Margaret thrust a bucket and cloth at me: “Emily, do the floors, would you? My knees are playing up.” I nearly laughed. Was this my official job now? I politely declined: “Margaret, I’ve got a dodgy back, and a mountain of things to sort.” She pursed her lips, and Arthur grumbled, “Young people today—no work ethic.” Work ethic? I’m juggling school runs, homework, meals eaten standing up, and they’re preaching about laziness?
I told William I was done playing Cinderella. He, ever the diplomat, tried: “Em, they’re elderly. One little favour won’t kill you.” One? Try every single time! I reminded him they’ve got pensions—they could hire help. He sighed: “You know they won’t have strangers in the house.” Oh, so I’m not a stranger? Just the unpaid labour? I gave him an ultimatum: either we get a cleaner, or the floors stay filthy. He promised to talk to them, but we both know he’ll cave. He always does.
The village grapevine, of course, is in full swing. Gossip travels faster than a midnight text. Old Mrs. Thompson from next door cornered me at the shop: “Emily, dear, your poor in-laws—can’t you lend a hand? They doted on William!” I bit my tongue before snapping, “And who’s doting on me and the kids?” Why does everyone assume I owe them my life? I respect Arthur and Margaret, but I’m not their skivvy. I’ve got my own family, my own dreams—yoga classes, weekend getaways, maybe reading a book without fretting about their laminate.
I proposed a compromise: we’d handle groceries and doctor visits, but cleaning was off the table. Margaret sniffed: “Emily, must we really hire some unknown?” Arthur added, “We thought of you as family.” Family? Since when does family mean free housemaid? I kept calm, but inside I was fuming. Why does no one care how I feel? I’ve spent years pleasing everyone—now I want to please myself. Is that a crime?
My best mate put it bluntly: “Em, you’re right. Set boundaries, or they’ll walk all over you.” So I have. The mop stays untouched. If they want gleaming floors, they can hire help or ask William—who, by the way, isn’t exactly thrilled to grab a brush either, yet somehow it’s always my job. I’ve even fantasised about moving to Cornwall, just to escape the guilt trips. But for now, I’m mastering the word “no.” And you know what? It’s glorious.
Let the neighbours tut. Let the in-laws grumble. I won’t be the martyred daughter-in-law, wrecking myself for their approval. Arthur and Margaret lived their lives—strong, stubborn, and perfectly capable. And I? I’m not their sequel. I’ve got my own story. If that means their floors go unscrubbed, so be it. My time’s worth more than a bucket and bleach. As for William—he’ll have to pick a side: his family’s, or his parents’.
