Five years ago, I married Henry. It was a thoughtful, mature decision, made out of love and with full confidence that we could face any challenges together. But even before the wedding, when we went to share our plans with his mother, her first reaction felt like a bucket of icy water:
“Don’t expect any help from me. And you certainly won’t be living with me! I’m used to being the lady of the house, and I won’t step aside for anyone!”
Henry and I exchanged glances. I was especially surprised. Back when he was studying, it had been his mother’s idea for him to move out of her flat into rented accommodation. She’d insisted it would be easier for everyone. So after the wedding, we continued living in that same rented flat, saving up for a place of our own.
Meanwhile, his mother owned a spacious three-bedroom flat in central London, inherited from her parents. Her father had died young, and her mother lived with her well into old age. She’d divorced her husband when Henry was about six, after just five years of marriage. As she once confessed to me:
“I wasn’t made to be a housemaid. I detest washing, cooking, cleaning. I’m not a servant—I’m a woman! I should live for myself!”
After the divorce, she returned to her parents’ home, where her mother handled all the household chores. Henry’s grandmother cooked, cleaned, washed, and looked after both her daughter and grandson because, supposedly, his mother “worked hard” and “was building her career.” Even when the grandmother grew older and fell ill, the housework never shifted to Henry’s mother. She never budged—not an inch.
Then Henry’s father passed away. They had stayed in touch. His father’s flat was divided in the will between my husband and his stepmother. She was reasonable—she agreed to sell her share, and we bought her out. We moved in, settled down, and had a son. And then trouble began…
When little Oliver was just six months old, Henry slipped on the street and broke his leg badly. The fracture was serious. He lost his job, money grew tighter, and I couldn’t return to work—our baby, Henry immobilized, mortgage payments, the debt to his stepmother. We cut corners everywhere. Reluctantly, Henry rang his mother:
“Mum, maybe we could stay with you for a bit? Six months. We’ll rent out our flat, get back on our feet…”
Her reply was instant and frosty:
“Absolutely not! I have Emily living here! She helps me around the house, does everything—you’ll just get in the way!”
Emily was her cousin, an older woman, childless and alone. She’d lived in the countryside, but her cottage burned down. His mother had “generously” taken her in… so she could clean, cook, and do laundry. Emily had become a live-in maid. And his mother made no apologies:
“You’re living under my roof, eating my food—go find a job! You can’t just sit around!”
I felt sorry for Emily. She looked worn down, exhausted, but never complained. Then—she vanished. Six months later, Henry said:
“Guess what? Emily ran off! Found a bloke with a place and left without a word.”
We were happy for her. A gentle, kind woman who deserved respect, not shouts and servitude. But now his mother was alone. Who would scrub her dishes and hoover her floors?
Then—out of the blue—she called. Herself!
“Fine, move in with me. Rent out your flat. But on one condition: Sophie (that’s me) does everything! Clean, cook, laundry, ironing. Well, what do you expect? You’ll be living here rent-free!”
When Henry relayed her words, I burst out laughing.
“Did you tell her ‘never’?” I asked.
“Of course,” he nodded. “She was offended. Said she’ll hire a maid.”
Let her hire one. We both work, I’ve returned from maternity leave, Oliver’s in nursery. We have our own home, our own peace. I won’t play servant to a woman who’s spent her life dodging responsibility while riding on her own mother’s back.
A couple of days later, she called again, naively asking, “So, you’re really not changing your minds?”
No, we’re not. And it got me thinking: soon she’ll retire. She won’t afford a maid then. I wonder who’ll she beg for help? Or—just maybe—she’ll finally pick up a cloth, a pan, a broom, and learn to live like a proper grown-up.
Time will tell.
Life teaches us: dignity isn’t in dominating others, but in standing on your own two feet.
