He’s asking me to move into his family home—but I refuse to become their maid.
My name is Emily, and I’m twenty-six. My husband, Oliver, 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 fine—Oliver never complained about living in my place, it suited him just fine. But then, out of the blue, he announced, “It’s about time we moved to my family home. There’s plenty of space, and when we have kids, they’ll have room to grow.”
I don’t want to “grow” under the same roof as his noisy relatives. I won’t trade my flat for a house ruled by outdated tradition and blind obedience, where I’m not a wife—just unpaid labour.
I remember my first visit to their place. A massive countryside house, easily 3,000 square feet, where his parents lived, along with his younger brother William, his wife Sophie, and their three kids. The moment I stepped inside, my role was made clear. Women cook, men lounge. Before I’d even unpacked, his mother shoved a knife in my hand and ordered me to chop vegetables—no “please,” no “would you mind?” Just commands.
At dinner, I watched Sophie dart around obediently, never daring to argue. Every request was met with an apologetic smile and a nod. It made my skin crawl. I swore I’d never live like that. I’m not some meek Sophie—I won’t bend.
When we left, his mother snapped, “Who’s going to wash the dishes?”
I turned and met her stare. “Hosts clean up after guests. We’re guests, not hired help.”
The outrage that followed was instant. Ungrateful. Rude. Spoiled city girl. But I knew then—there was no place for me there.
Oliver backed me then. For months, things were quiet. He dealt with his family—I stayed out of it. But then the pressure started. Hints, then demands.
“It’s a proper family home,” he insisted. “Mum can help with the kids—you’ll have support. We could even rent out your flat for extra income.”
“And my job?” I asked. “I won’t quit everything to move to some village 25 miles outside the city. What would I even do there?”
“You wouldn’t need to work,” he shrugged. “Have a baby, look after the home, like normal. A woman’s place is at home.”
That was the last straw. I’ve got a degree, a career, ambitions. I’m an editor; I love my job, and I’ve worked hard for it. And now I’m supposed to trade it for nappies and nagging? For a house where I’ll be scolded for an unwashed pan and lectured on how to birth and boil soup?
I know Oliver is a product of his upbringing. In his world, sons carry the name, and wives should be grateful just to sit at the table. But I’m not one to swallow insults. I bit my tongue when his mother belittled me. I stayed silent when his brother smirked, “Our Sophie never complains!” But I won’t stay quiet now.
I told Oliver plainly: “We either live separately with boundaries, or you move back to your family estate alone.”
He sulked. Said I was tearing us apart, that in his family, men don’t live on “some woman’s turf.” But I don’t care. My flat isn’t “some woman’s turf”—it’s mine. And my voice isn’t background noise.
I don’t want a divorce. But I won’t live under his family’s rule either. If he doesn’t drop this idea of planting me next to his mother, I’ll pack my bags first. Because I’d rather be alone than come second to his kin.
