“I’m Not the In-Laws’ Maid”
Washing floors at my in-laws’ house? No thank you—I have no desire to! At thirty-eight, I, Emily, have finally decided it’s time to live for myself, not to run around with a mop in their spacious manor. My in-laws, Arthur and Margaret, are ninety-two and eighty-three, and of course, they’re no longer capable of managing the household alone. My husband, William, their only son, was born when they were already in their forties, and now everyone looks at me as their savior. 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, end of story.
William and I have been married for ten years, and all this time, I’ve tried to be a good daughter-in-law. Arthur and Margaret aren’t malicious, but they’re not easy. Arthur, despite his age, is still lively—he walks with a cane, reads the papers, and loves recounting tales from his youth. Margaret is frailer, spending most of her time in an armchair, knitting or watching telly. Their house is large, old, with wooden floors and countless rooms they stubbornly refuse to rent or sell. “This is our nest,” they say. And I wouldn’t mind—if their “nest” hadn’t turned into my headache.
When we first married, I often visited, helped with cleaning, cooked, took them to doctor’s appointments. It wasn’t a burden—I thought it was temporary, while they still had their strength. But time passed, and their expectations grew. Now, every time we visit, Margaret sighs dramatically at the floors and says, “Oh, Emily, love, it’s so dusty here.” And Arthur adds, “You’re such a practical girl, you’ll manage.” Practical? I’m a marketing manager, I have two children, a mortgage, and a thousand things to do. When did I become their cleaner?
Recently, things came to a head. We visited for the weekend, and the moment I walked in, Margaret handed me a bucket and mop: “Emily dear, could you wash the floors? My legs ache too much.” I was stunned. Am I officially hired now? I politely refused: “I’m sorry, Margaret, my back’s been playing up, and I’ve got loads on my plate.” She scowled, and Arthur muttered, “Young people today are so lazy.” Lazy? I pick the kids up from school after work, help with homework, scarf down dinner on the go—and they call *me* lazy?
I told William I wasn’t cleaning their floors anymore. He, ever the diplomat, said, “They’re elderly, love. Can’t you just help this once?” Just once? It’s every single time! I reminded him his parents have a pension—they could hire help. But he sighed: “They won’t let strangers in the house.” Strangers? So *I’m* not a stranger, but free labour? I gave him an ultimatum: either hire a cleaner, or their floors stay dirty. He promised to talk to them, but I know he’ll cave—he always does.
The neighbours, of course, are whispering. In our little town, gossip spreads like wildfire. The other day, Mrs. Thompson, their neighbour, cornered me at the shops: “Emily, how can you neglect them? They did everything for William!” I barely held back: “And what, I don’t do anything for William and *our* children?” Why does everyone assume I owe my life to their house? I respect Arthur and Margaret, but I’m not their servant. I have my own family, my own dreams. I want to take yoga classes, go on holiday with the kids, read a book without worrying about dusty floors.
I suggested a compromise: William and I would handle groceries and doctor’s visits, but cleaning was off the table. Margaret wrinkled her nose: “Emily, you’d bring *strangers* into our home?” And Arthur added, “We thought of you as a daughter.” A daughter doesn’t mean a maid! I stayed calm, but inside, I was seething. Why does no one care how *I* feel? I’ve spent years pleasing everyone—now I want to live for myself. Is that a crime?
My best friend, when I vented, said, “Emily, you’re right. Set boundaries, or they’ll walk all over you.” So I did. No more mops. If they want clean floors, they can hire help or ask William—who, by the way, isn’t rushing to scrub either. Somehow, it’s always *my* duty. I’ve even fantasized about moving away, just to escape these expectations. For now, I’m learning to say “no.” And you know what? It’s liberating.
Let the neighbours gossip. Let the in-laws grumble. I won’t be the dutiful daughter-in-law who burns herself out for their approval. Arthur and Margaret have lived long, strong lives. But I’m not their appendage—I have my own path. And if that means refusing to wash their floors, so be it. It’s *my* time now, and I won’t waste it on buckets and mops. As for William—he’ll have to choose: his family, or his parents’ demands.
