Oh wow, let me tell you this wild story about my mother-in-law—it’s a proper saga.
Five years ago, I married Oliver. It was a calm, grown-up decision, made for love, with total confidence we could handle anything. But even before the wedding, when we went to tell his mum, her reaction hit us like a bucket of ice water:
“Don’t expect any help from me. And you’re not living with me! I’m used to running my own home, and I won’t be giving up control for anyone!”
Olly and I just looked at each other. I was especially shocked. Back when he was studying, his mum had insisted he move out of her flat into rented accommodation—supposedly to make life easier for everyone. So after the wedding, we stayed in that same rented place, saving up for our own home.
Meanwhile, his mum had this massive three-bed flat right in central London, left to her by her parents. Her dad died young, and her mum lived with her till she was old. She’d divorced Olly’s dad when he was about six—they’d only been married five years. And as she once confessed to me:
“I wasn’t made to be some housewife. I hate cleaning, cooking, tidying. I’m not a maid—I’m a woman! I’m supposed to live for myself!”
After the divorce, she moved back to her parents’ place, where her mum ran everything. Olly’s grandma did all the cooking, cleaning, laundry, even looked after him *and* her daughter, because apparently, my mother-in-law was “working hard” and “building a career.” Even when Grandma got too old and ill, the housework never shifted to her. She never gave an inch.
Then Olly’s dad passed. They’d stayed in touch, and his flat was split between Olly and his stepmum in the will. Luckily, she was decent—agreed to sell us her share, so we bought her out, moved in, settled down, had our little boy, Freddie. And then… disaster.
When Freddie was just six months old, Olly slipped and broke his leg badly. Complicated fracture. Lost his job, money got tight. I couldn’t work—tiny baby, husband bedridden, mortgage payments, the loan to his stepmum. We were cutting corners everywhere. So Olly, reluctantly, rang his mum:
“Mum… maybe we could move in with you? Just six months? We’ll rent out ours, get back on our feet…”
Instant, icy reply:
“Absolutely not! I’ve got Lucy living here! She helps around the house, does everything—you’d just be in the way!”
Lucy was her cousin—older, single, no kids. Used to live in the countryside, but her cottage burned down. My mother-in-law *graciously* took her in… to do all the cleaning, cooking, laundry. Lucy was basically a live-in maid. And my mother-in-law didn’t even pretend otherwise:
“You’re living here, eating my food—go find a job! You’re not freeloading!”
I felt awful for Lucy. She looked exhausted, cowed, but never said a word. Then… she vanished. Six months later, Olly said,
“You’ll never believe it. Lucy ran off! Found some bloke with a house and left, didn’t even say goodbye.”
We were thrilled for her. Sweet woman, deserved respect, not shouting and chores. But now, my mother-in-law was alone. Who’d do the washing-up and hoovering?
Then—out of nowhere—she called. *Her.*
“Fine, move in. Rent out your place. But my condition: Sophie—” (that’s me) “—does *everything.* Cleaning, cooking, laundry, ironing. Well? You’d be living here rent-free!”
When Olly told me, I just cracked up laughing.
“Please tell me you said ‘not a chance’?”
“Course I did,” he nodded. “She got offended. Said she’d hire a cleaner.”
Let her. We’re both working now, I’m back from maternity leave, Freddie’s in nursery. We’ve got our own home, our peace. I won’t be some servant to a woman who spent her whole life dodging responsibility while riding on her own mum’s back.
Couple days later, she rang again, all hopeful: “So… you *sure* you won’t change your mind?”
Nope. Not happening. And I’ve been thinking—she’ll retire soon. Won’t be able to afford a cleaner then. Wonder who’ll be begging *who*? Or maybe—just maybe—she’ll finally pick up a duster, a saucepan, a broom… and learn to live like a proper grown-up.
We’ll see, won’t we?
