**Mother-in-Law Against Mops and Pans: Once She Turned Us Away, Now She Calls—But Only on Her Terms**
Five years ago, I married William. It was a calm, mature decision made out of love and with full confidence that we could handle any challenge. But even before the wedding, when we went to tell his mother about our plans, her first reaction felt like a bucket of ice water over my head:
*”Don’t expect any help from me. And you won’t be living with me! I’m used to running my own home, and I won’t step aside for anyone!”*
William and I exchanged glances. I was especially shocked. Back when he was still studying, she’d insisted he move out of her flat into a rented place—claiming it would be easier for everyone. So after the wedding, we kept living in that same rental, saving up for our own home.
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 until old age. She’d divorced William’s father when he was about six—they’d only been married five years. Once, she confessed to me:
*”I wasn’t made to be a housemaid. I despise washing, cooking, cleaning. I’m not a servant—I’m a woman! I should live for myself!”*
After the divorce, she moved back into her childhood home, where her own mother handled all the chores. William’s grandmother cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, and looked after both her daughter and grandson because, apparently, she was *”too busy working”* and *”building a career.”* Even when the grandmother grew ill, my mother-in-law never lifted a finger. She never yielded—not in anything.
Later, William’s father passed away. He’d stayed in touch, and the father’s flat was split between my husband and his stepmother. Thankfully, she was reasonable—she agreed to sell her share, and we bought her out. We moved in, settled down, and had our son. Then everything fell apart.
When Arthur was just six months old, William slipped on the pavement and broke his leg badly. The fracture was complicated. He lost his job, money dwindled. I couldn’t work—our baby needed me, William was barely mobile, there were mortgage payments, the debt to his stepmother. We cut every corner. Reluctantly, William called his mother:
*”Mum, any chance we could stay with you for a while? Just six months? We’ll rent out our flat, get back on our feet…”*
Her reply was instant and icy:
*”Absolutely not! I’ve got Margaret living with me! She helps around the house, does everything—you’d just be in the way!”*
Margaret—her cousin, elderly, childless, alone. She used to live in the countryside, but her house burned down. So my mother-in-law *”graciously”* took her in… to scrub, cook, and wash. Margaret became a live-in maid. And his mother didn’t even pretend otherwise:
*”You eat my food, live under my roof—go find work! You can’t just sit around!”*
I pitied Margaret. She looked worn out, defeated, but she never spoke up. Then—she vanished. Six months later, William told me:
*”Guess what? Margaret ran off! Found herself a bloke with a house and left without a word.”*
Good for her. She was kind, gentle—deserving of respect, not orders and chores. But now his mother was alone. Who’d wash her dishes and vacuum now?
Then—out of nowhere—she called.
*”Fine, move in. Rent out your flat. But here’s the condition: Victoria (that’s me) does everything. Cleaning, cooking, laundry, ironing. Well? You’ll be living here for free!”*
When William repeated her words, I burst out laughing.
*”Did you tell her ‘not a chance’?”* I asked.
*”Obviously,”* he nodded. *”She got upset. Said she’d hire a maid.”*
Let her. We both work now—I’m back from maternity leave, Arthur’s in nursery. We have our own home, our peace. I won’t be a servant to a woman who spent her life dodging responsibility while riding on her own mother’s back.
Two days later, she rang again, hopeful: *”You’re really not changing your mind?”*
No, we’re not. And I couldn’t help wondering—soon, she’ll retire. She won’t afford a maid then. Who’ll she beg to move in? Or maybe—just maybe—she’ll finally pick up a mop, a pan, a broom… and learn to live like a proper grown-up.
We’ll see.
