Life Under a Tyrant’s Thumb
When life backed my husband and me into a corner, we had no choice but to move in with his father in a little town near York. It was meant to be temporary, but within months, I knew I couldn’t last a year under the same roof as that man. I felt like a servant in the house of a merciless lord, and now, even if we were down to our last penny, I’d never go back. His treatment of me shattered any hope of peaceful cohabitation.
My husband’s parents had divorced years ago. He was raised by his father, Nigel Whitmore, while his mother had long since started a new family and rarely visited. Maybe that’s why Nigel held such contempt for women. When we first met, he struck me as just a grumpy old man—curmudgeonly, but harmless. Out of respect for raising my husband single-handedly, I tried to get along with him. No such luck.
We didn’t own a flat. We’d been renting a room in York, saving for a place of our own, but then I got pregnant, and everything fell apart. Money was tight, and with the baby due soon, we swallowed our pride and asked Nigel if we could stay. Within days, I regretted it, as if sensing the nightmare ahead.
I’d never known so much housework existed. Cleaning, cooking, ironing—it all landed on me as if I were an indentured servant, not a heavily pregnant woman. By the eighth month, I could barely move, my back ached, and my feet swelled, but rest was out of the question. I trudged to work to scrape together some maternity pay, only to return home to an endless list of chores.
“Think you’re the Queen of Sheba?” Nigel would bark if I dared sit for five minutes. “Pregnancy isn’t an illness! No one’s running around with a mop for you!”
So, gritting my teeth, I’d grab the duster, scrub the windows, and attack corners that hadn’t seen a sponge in decades. Nigel had no mercy. He nitpicked endlessly, inventing tasks until I nearly collapsed, always when my husband, Oliver, was out. I tried lingering outside to avoid him, but it never worked.
“I come home from work, and where are you?” he’d shout if dinner wasn’t ready. “Floors filthy, crumbs underfoot, and she’s off gallivanting!”
His words cut deep. He belittled me at every turn, and I bit my tongue, not wanting to burden Oliver, who was working two jobs just to keep us afloat. I tried enduring Nigel, hoping he’d warm up, but his complaints multiplied like rabbits. Soup too bland? Plate not spotless? Bedding folded wrong? Sometimes his gripes were so absurd I nearly laughed through tears. I mopped twice daily, ironed his shirts as if it were my sworn duty—anything to avoid another tirade.
“Why should I lift an iron when there’s a woman in the house?” he’d roar. “If my son married such a useless lump, he should divorce her! Lazing about all day!”
Living with Nigel, I finally understood why his wife had fled soon after their son was born. Enduring him was beyond human strength. I developed a begrudging respect for the woman who’d lasted even a few years—she was a saint. But one day, I reached my limit.
Standing at the sink, scrubbing a stubborn pot, Nigel launched into yet another lecture on my “incompetence.” His sneering voice was the final straw. I slammed the pot down, wiped my hands, and without a word, went to pack. I’d rather eat stale toast in a shoebox flat than let that tyrant grind me into dust. It wasn’t just about me—our baby didn’t need this drama.
“Piss off, then!” he yelled as I left, hurling insults.
Oliver came home just then. Seeing me in tears, he barely kept from throttling his father. I held him back, and the next day, we rented a tiny room. Oliver hasn’t spoken to Nigel since. The old man sent a few venomous texts about “choosing some woman over blood,” and that was that.
To this day, I don’t know how such a man raised such a kind son. Maybe Nigel turned bitter from loneliness or jealousy—but frankly, I couldn’t care less. We’re done with him, and I pray it stays that way.
