Mother-in-Law Against the Mop and Frying Pan: Once She Refused Us, Now She Calls—But on Her Terms
Five years ago, I married William. It was a calm, grown-up decision, made out of love and with complete confidence that we could weather any storm. But even before the wedding, when we went to tell his mother our plans, her first reaction was like a bucket of ice water:
“Don’t count on my help. And you won’t be living with me! I’m used to being mistress of my own home, and I’m not giving that up for anyone!”
William and I exchanged looks. I was especially surprised. After all, back when he was studying, it was his mother who insisted he move out of her flat into rented accommodation. “Easier for everyone,” she’d said. So that’s where we stayed after the wedding, saving up for our own place.
Meanwhile, his mother lived in a spacious three-bedroom flat in central London, inherited from her father, who’d died young, while her mother lived with her until old age. She’d divorced when William was six—married for just five years. As she once confessed to me:
“I wasn’t made to be a housekeeper. I despise washing, cooking, cleaning. I’m no maid—I’m a woman! I should live for myself!”
After the divorce, she moved back to her parents’ home, where everything was handled by her mother. William’s grandmother cooked, scrubbed, laundered, and cared for both her daughter and grandson because, supposedly, his mother “worked hard” and “had a career.” And when Granny grew frail, the chores still didn’t fall to his mother. She refused to budge—on anything.
Later, William’s father passed. They’d kept in touch. His flat was split between William and his stepmother in the will. She was decent—agreed to sell her share, and we bought her out. We moved in, settled, had a son. Then disaster struck.
When little Oliver was just six months old, William fell in the street and badly broke his leg. A complicated fracture. He lost his job, money grew tight. I couldn’t work—tiny baby, husband bedridden, mortgage payments, stepmother’s debt. We cut costs everywhere. Reluctantly, William called his mum:
“Mum, maybe we could stay with you for a bit? Six months? We’ll rent out our place, get back on our feet…”
Her reply was instant and icy.
“Absolutely not! Emily lives here! She helps with the house, does everything—you’ll just be in the way!”
Emily—her cousin, elderly, childless, alone. She’d lived in the countryside, but her cottage burned down. His mother “graciously” took her in… to scrub, cook, and launder. Emily was practically a housemaid. And his mother made no apologies:
“You live under my roof, eat my food—go find work! You’re not freeloading here!”
I pitied Emily. She looked worn, weary, but never spoke up. Then—she vanished. Six months later, William said,
“You’ll never guess—Emily ran off! Found a bloke with a place and left without a word.”
We were glad for her. A kind, gentle woman, deserving respect, not shouts and chores. But now, his mother was alone. Who’d wash her dishes and hoover her floors?
Then—out of the blue—she called. Herself!
“Fine, move in. Rent out your place. But my condition: Sophie (that’s me) does everything—cleaning, cooking, laundry, ironing. Well? You’ll be living here rent-free!”
When William repeated her words, I burst out laughing.
“Did you tell her ‘not a chance’?” I asked.
“Of course,” he nodded. “She got huffy. Said she’d hire a maid.”
Let her hire one. We both work now—I’m back from maternity leave, Oliver’s in nursery. We have our home, our peace. I won’t be a servant to a woman who’s spent her life avoiding responsibility, happy to ride on her own mother’s back.
A few days later, she rang again, hopeful: “You’re sure you won’t change your mind?”
No, we won’t. And I wonder—soon, she’ll retire. No more money for maids. Who’ll she beg then? Or will she finally pick up a mop, a pot, a broom—and learn to live like a proper adult?
We’ll see.
