Alright, so, listen to this—I’m not some maid for my in-laws, right? Washing floors in their house? No thanks, not happening. I’m Emily, 38, and I’ve decided it’s high time I started living for myself instead of running around their massive house with a mop. My in-laws, Arthur and Margaret, are 92 and 83, and sure, they’re not exactly spry enough to handle the housework anymore. My husband, James, their only son, was born when they were already in their forties, and now everyone’s looking at me like I’m their knight in shining armour. But I never signed up to be their cleaner! People gossip, the in-laws drop hints, but I’ve had enough—my time is my own, end of story.
James and I have been married ten years, and all this time I’ve tried to be the perfect daughter-in-law. Arthur and Margaret aren’t bad people, just… set in their ways. Arthur’s still got some pep, walking with a cane, reading the paper, always going on about his glory days. Margaret’s frailer, mostly stuck in her armchair knitting or binge-watching telly. Their house is this big, old place with wooden floors and way too many rooms they refuse to rent out or sell. “It’s our nest,” they say. And fine, whatever, except their “nest” has become my problem.
Back when we first got married, I’d come over all the time—help with cleaning, cook, take them to doctor’s appointments. Didn’t mind it then; thought it was temporary. But years passed, and their expectations only grew. Now, every time we visit, Margaret gives me that pitiful look and sighs, “Oh, Emily love, the floors could do with a wash, they’re ever so dusty.” And Arthur chimes in, “You’re such a dab hand at this, you’ll manage.” Dab hand? I’m a marketing manager with two kids, a mortgage, and a mountain of my own to-do lists. When did I sign up to be their live-in cleaner?
Things came to a head last weekend. We popped over, and before I could even take my coat off, Margaret shoved a bucket and mop at me. “Emily, do the floors, would you? My ankles are playing up.” I was gobsmacked. Was I suddenly on payroll? I politely said no—“Sorry, Margaret, my back’s acting up, and I’ve got heaps to do.” She pursed her lips, and Arthur muttered, “Kids these days, no work ethic.” *Work ethic*? I’m juggling school runs, homework, meals on the fly, and they’re calling *me* lazy?
I told James I wasn’t doing their floors anymore. He did his usual peacemaker bit—“Em, they’re old, it’s tough for them. Just help out this once?” *This once*? It’s *every* time! I reminded him they’ve got pensions—they could hire help. But he just sighed. “You know they won’t have strangers in the house.” Oh, so *I’m* not a stranger? Just their on-call scrubber? I laid it out: either we get them a cleaner, or I’m done. James promised to talk to them, but let’s be real—he’ll cave. He always does.
The neighbours, of course, are all over it. In our little town, gossip spreads faster than butter on hot toast. Mrs. Thompson from down the road cornered me at the shops—“Emily, how can you leave your poor in-laws like this? They did everything for James!” I nearly snapped back, “And what, I do *nothing* for him and our kids?” Why does everyone act like I owe my life to their house? I respect Arthur and Margaret, but I’m not their skivvy. I’ve got my own family, my own dreams. I want yoga classes, holidays with the kids, a bloody minute to read a book without stressing over someone else’s floors.
I offered a compromise: we’d handle shopping, doctor’s trips, but cleaning was off the table. Margaret pulled a face—“Emily, you’d really bring outsiders into our home?” And Arthur added, “We thought of you as family.” *Family*, not free labour! I bit my tongue, but I was fuming. Why does no one care how *I* feel? I’ve spent years people-pleasing, and now I want my own life. Is that a crime?
My mate Sarah put it perfectly: “Em, you’re right. Set boundaries, or they’ll walk all over you.” So I have. No more mops. If they want clean floors, they can hire someone or ask James—funny how *he’s* never volunteering, but it’s always my job. I’ve even fantasised about moving away, just to escape the guilt trips. For now, though, I’m learning to say no. And honestly? It feels bloody brilliant.
Let the neighbours talk. Let the in-laws grumble. I won’t be the daughter-in-law who burns herself out for their approval. Arthur and Margaret lived their lives; now it’s my turn. And if that means no more scrubbing their floors, so be it. James can figure out where his loyalty lies—with us, or with their endless expectations.
