Life Under a Tyrant’s Rule
When life backed my husband and me into a corner, we had no choice but to move in with his father in a tiny town near Manchester. It seemed like a temporary fix, but within months, I knew I wouldn’t survive 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’re down to our last penny, I’ll never go back to my father-in-law. His treatment of me shattered any hope of peaceful coexistence.
My husband’s parents had divorced years ago. His father, Nigel Whitmore, raised him, while his mother had long since started a new family and rarely visited. Perhaps that’s why Nigel looked upon women with contempt. When we first met, he struck me as just a grumpy old man—nothing more. Out of respect for him raising my husband alone, I tried to find common ground. Useless.
We didn’t own a flat. We rented a room in Manchester, saving up for a place of our own, but then I got pregnant, and all our plans collapsed. Money was tight, and the due date loomed. Reluctantly, we asked to stay with Nigel. Within days, I regretted it, as if some instinct warned me my life was about to turn into a nightmare.
I’d never known such relentless housework. Cleaning, cooking, ironing—it all landed on me as if I weren’t heavily pregnant, just some hapless housemaid. At eight months, I could barely walk; my back ached, and my belly weighed me down, but rest was out of the question. I still dragged myself to work to scrape together maternity pay, only to come home to an endless list of chores.
“What, playing the lady of leisure now?” Nigel would snap if I dared to sit or lie down when exhaustion took over. “Being pregnant isn’t an illness! No one’s running around with a mop for you!”
So, gritting my teeth, I’d grab the cleaning supplies again—scrubbing floors, dusting shelves, washing windows, tackling corners untouched for years. Nigel had no mercy. He nitpicked every little thing, inventing new tasks until I nearly collapsed, and he only did this when my husband wasn’t home. I tried lingering outside to avoid his temper, but it never worked.
“I come home from work, and where have you been loafing about?” he’d shout if dinner wasn’t ready when he returned. “Floors filthy, crumbs underfoot, and she’s out gallivanting!”
His words cut like knives. He humiliated me at every chance, and I kept quiet, not wanting to burden my husband. Oliver was already working two jobs to keep us afloat. I tried handling Nigel alone, hoping he’d warm up to me—but his complaints piled up like unread junk mail. Soup too bland. Plates not spotless. Beds not made “properly.” Sometimes his nitpicking was so absurd I nearly laughed. I had to mop twice a day, iron not just our clothes but his shirts too—like I was his personal maid.
“Why should I lift an iron when there’s a woman in the house?” he’d bellow. “If my son married such a useless lump, he should ditch her! Lazing around all day!”
Living with Nigel made me understand why his wife had bolted shortly after giving birth. Enduring him was beyond human capacity. I started admiring that woman for surviving even a few years—she was a saint. But eventually, I hit my limit.
I was scrubbing a pot in the kitchen when Nigel marched in, launching into his usual tirade about how I “couldn’t do anything right.” His contemptuous tone was the last straw. With a clatter, I dropped the pan in the sink, wiped my hands, and without a word, went to pack. Better to starve than let that tyrant wreck my sanity—or my baby’s health.
“Go on, clear off then!” he yelled after me, hurling curses.
Just then, Oliver came home. Seeing me in tears, he barely stopped himself from lunging at his father. I led him away, and the next day, we rented a shoebox of a room. Oliver hasn’t spoken to Nigel since. His father sent a few venomous texts, accusing him of “choosing some woman over family.” That was it—Oliver cut ties for good.
To this day, I don’t know how such a man raised a kind, loving son. Maybe Nigel grew bitter from loneliness or jealousy—but I’ve no energy left to care. We’re done with him, and I hope it stays that way.
