The Mother-in-Law vs. the Mop and Frying Pan: Once She Wouldn’t Let Us Move In, Now She’s Begging—But on Her Terms
Five years ago, I married Oliver. It was a calm, mature decision, made out of love and with full confidence we could handle anything. But even before the wedding, when we went to tell his mum our plans, her first reaction was like a bucket of ice water:
“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!”
Ollie and I exchanged looks. I was especially shocked. Back when he was at uni, his mum had insisted he move out of her flat into a rented place. Said it’d be easier for everyone. So after the wedding, we kept living in that rented flat, saving up for our own.
Meanwhile, his mum had a massive three-bed in central London, left to her by her parents—her dad died young, and her mum lived with her till old age. She’d divorced when Ollie was about six; the marriage lasted five years. And as she once admitted to me:
“I wasn’t made to be a housemaid. I hate cleaning, cooking, laundry. I’m not a servant—I’m a woman! I’m meant to live for myself!”
After the divorce, she moved back to her parents’ home, where her mum handled everything. Oliver’s nan cooked, cleaned, and cared for both him and her daughter, who was “too busy working” and “building her career.” Even when Nan got older and ill, the chores never shifted to my mother-in-law. She didn’t budge—not once.
Later, Oliver’s dad passed. They’d stayed in touch. His flat was split between Ollie and his stepmum in the will. She was decent—agreed to sell her share, so we bought her out. Moved in, settled down, had our son. Then things got messy…
When little George was six months old, Ollie slipped outside and broke his leg badly. A nasty fracture. He lost his job, money got tight. I couldn’t work—baby, immobile husband, mortgage payments, debt to his stepmum. We were scraping by. So Ollie reluctantly called his mum:
“Mum, maybe we could stay with you for a bit? Six months? We’ll rent our place out, get back on our feet…”
Her reply was instant and icy:
“Absolutely not! I’ve got Megan living here! She helps me around the house—you’d just be in the way!”
Megan was her cousin, older, single, no kids. Used to live in the countryside till her cottage burned down. My mother-in-law “generously” took her in… to cook, clean, and do laundry. Megan became a live-in maid. And his mum didn’t hold back:
“You’re living and eating on my dime—go find a job! I won’t have freeloaders!”
I felt awful for Megan. She looked worn out, timid, but never complained. Then—she vanished. Six months later, Ollie said,
“Guess what? Megan’s run off! Found some bloke with a place and left without even saying goodbye.”
We were chuffed for her. A kind, gentle woman who deserved respect, not shouts and chores. But now his mum was alone. Who’d wash her dishes or hoover now?
Then—out of nowhere, *she* called.
“Fine, move in. Rent your place out. But my condition: Sophie—that’s you—does *everything*. Cleaning, cooking, laundry, ironing. Well, you’ll be living here rent-free!”
When Ollie told me, I just cracked up.
“Did you tell her *never*?” I asked.
“Course,” he nodded. She got huffy. Said she’d hire a cleaner.
Let her. We’re both working now—I’m back from maternity leave, George is in nursery. We’ve got our own home, our peace. I won’t be a servant to a woman who’s dodged responsibility her whole life but happily rode on her mum’s back.
Two days later, she rang again, naively asking, “Are you *sure* you won’t change your minds?”
Nope. Not a chance. And it got me thinking: she’ll retire soon. Won’t afford a cleaner then. Wonder who’ll she beg next time? 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.
