“I’m Not Their Housekeeper”
Washing the floors at my in-laws’ place? No, thank you—I have no desire to! At thirty-eight, I, Emily, have decided it’s finally time to live for myself, not spend my days scrubbing their sprawling country house. My in-laws, Geoffrey and Margaret, are ninety-two and eighty-three, and of course, they’re no longer able to manage the household themselves. My husband, William, their only son, was born when they were already in their forties, and now everyone looks at me as their designated rescuer. But I didn’t sign up to be their maid! People gossip, the in-laws drop hints, but I’ve made up my mind—enough is enough. My time is my own, and that’s final.
William and I have been married for ten years, and all this time I’ve tried to be a good daughter-in-law. Geoffrey and Margaret aren’t unkind, but they’re set in their ways. Despite his age, Geoffrey is still spry—he walks with a cane, reads the papers, and loves reminiscing about his youth. Margaret is frailer, spending most of her time in her armchair knitting or watching telly. Their home—a grand, creaky old place with wooden floors and too many rooms—is their pride. “This is our nest,” they always say. I wouldn’t mind, if their “nest” didn’t become my burden.
Early in our marriage, I often visited, helping with cleaning, cooking, and driving them to doctor’s appointments. It didn’t seem like much—I thought it was temporary. But years passed, and their expectations grew. Now, every time we visit, Margaret sighs dramatically at the dusty floors. “Oh, Emily, love, they could do with a mop.” Geoffrey chimes in, “You’re so practical, dear, you’d manage it in no time.” Practical? I’m a marketing manager with two kids, a mortgage, and a never-ending to-do list. When did I become their cleaning service?
The breaking point came last weekend. We arrived, and before I could even take off my coat, Margaret thrust a bucket and mop into my hands. “Emily, be a dear and give the floors a quick wipe, would you? My knees are giving me grief.” I was stunned. Was this now my official duty? Politely, I declined. “I’m sorry, Margaret, my back’s been playing up, and I’ve got errands to run.” She pursed her lips, and Geoffrey muttered, “Young people today—no sense of duty.” No sense of duty? Between school runs, homework checks, and scarfing down meals on the go, when do I have time for theirs?
I told William I wouldn’t clean their house anymore. As usual, he played mediator. “Em, they’re elderly. What’s one more little favour?” One more? It’s every time! I reminded him they have pensions—they could hire help. But William just sighed. “You know they won’t let strangers in.” So I’m not a stranger, but that means I’m fair game? I gave him an ultimatum: either we arrange a cleaner, or I’m done with their floors. He promised to talk to them, but I know he’ll tiptoe around it.
The village grapevine, of course, caught wind. One day, Mrs. Thompson, their neighbour, cornered me at the shops. “Emily, how could you? Poor Geoffrey and Margaret—after all they’ve done for William!” I bit my tongue before snapping back, “And what about what I do for William and our children?” Why is it my duty to sacrifice my life for their house? I respect Geoffrey and Margaret, but I’m not their skivvy. I have my own family, my own dreams. Yoga classes, holidays with the kids, just reading a book without fretting over someone else’s floors—is that too much to ask?
I offered a compromise: we’d handle groceries and doctor visits, but cleaning was off the table. Margaret frowned. “Emily, really, must we have outsiders tramping about?” Geoffrey added, “We thought of you as family.” Family doesn’t mean free labour! I kept my cool, but inside I seethed. Why does no one consider my feelings? I’ve spent a lifetime pleasing others—now I want to live for myself. Is that so wrong?
My best friend Lily put it bluntly: “Set boundaries, or they’ll walk all over you.” So I have. The mop stays untouched. If they want shiny floors, they can hire someone or ask William—who, incidentally, isn’t volunteering either. Funny how it always falls to me. Sometimes I dream of moving away, just to escape the weight of their expectations. But for now, I’m learning to say no. And you know what? It’s liberating.
Let the neighbours talk. Let the in-laws grumble. I won’t be the daughter-in-law who burns herself out for approval. Geoffrey and Margaret lived long, sturdy lives—but I’m not an extension of them. I have my own path. And if that means refusing to scrub their floors, so be it. My time is here, and I won’t spend it on buckets and bleach. As for William? He’ll have to choose—our family, or theirs. That’s the price of setting yourself free.
