**Diary Entry**
He’s asking me to move into his family home—and I refuse to become their unpaid maid.
My name is Emily, I’m twenty-six. My husband, David, and I have been married nearly two years. We live in Manchester, in a cosy two-bed flat that I inherited from my grandmother. At first, everything was peaceful—David never complained about living here, perfectly content with the arrangement. Then out of the blue, he announced, “It’s time we moved back to my family’s place. Plenty of room, especially when we have kids—space for them to run about.”
But I don’t want to run about under the same roof as his noisy family. I won’t trade my own flat for a household ruled by stifling tradition and blind obedience—where I’d be less a wife and more unpaid help.
I remember my first visit to their house vividly. A massive cottage on the outskirts—3,000 square feet at least. His parents live there, as does his younger brother, William, his wife Sophie, and their three kids. The whole lot. The moment I stepped inside, they made my role clear. Women to the kitchen, men to the telly. I hadn’t even unpacked when his mother shoved a knife into my hand and ordered me to chop salad. No “please,” no “would you mind?” Just a demand.
At dinner, I watched Sophie dart back and forth, never daring to protest, answering every sharp word from his mother with a guilty smile and a nod. It made my blood run cold. I knew then I’d never accept that fate. Not for anything. I’m not meek little Sophie, and I won’t bend.
When we left, his mother barked, “Who’s going to wash the dishes?” I turned, looked her in the eye, and said, “Guests don’t tidy after themselves. We’re guests, not hired help.”
The backlash was instant. Ungrateful, rude, a spoiled city girl—the insults flew. But I stood firm, realising I’d never belong there.
David backed me that night. For six months, things were quiet. He dealt with his family; I stayed clear. Then the hints began. First whispers, then demands.
“There’s space there, family to help,” he kept saying. “Mum’ll pitch in with the kids, you’ll have less to worry about. And we could rent your flat—extra income.”
“What about my job?” I countered. “I won’t drop everything to move to a village 25 miles from the city. What would I even do there?”
He shrugged. “You won’t need to work. Have a baby, manage the house—like normal. Women belong at home.”
That was the last straw. I’m educated, ambitious, proud of my career as an editor. I earned my place. And he thinks I should trade it all for nappies and a stove? For a house where I’d be scolded over unwashed pans and lectured on childbirth and soup recipes?
I know David is a product of his upbringing. There, sons carry the name, and wives are outsiders expected to stay quiet and grateful. But I won’t swallow disrespect. I bit my tongue when his mother belittled me. I stayed silent when William sneered, “Sophie never complains!” But I won’t stay quiet anymore.
I made it clear: “Either we live separately and respect boundaries, or you move back to your family’s estate—without me.”
He sulked. Said I was tearing us apart. That in his family, sons don’t live “on someone else’s land.” I don’t care. My flat isn’t “someone else’s,” and my voice isn’t up for negotiation.
I don’t want a divorce. But living under his clan’s thumb? Never. If he won’t drop this fantasy of settling me next to his mum, I’ll pack my bags first. Because I’d rather be alone than second to his family.
**Lesson learned:** A house is only a home if you’re treated like family—not staff.
