I cleaned up my mother-in-law’s house, but all I got was criticism.
It’s been a few years since Henry and I started dating. Our relationship moved slowly but steadily. He was thoughtful, attentive, did everything to make me feel loved. Recently, he proposed—I happily said yes. We dreamed about our future together, made plans, and it seemed nothing could go wrong.
While preparing for the wedding, his parents went on holiday and offered us their house to stay in. Henry loved the idea—said it’d be a chance to live together properly, get a taste of domestic life. I agreed, though I felt a flicker of nerves: their house, barely knowing his parents, the weight of responsibility. But love outweighs worry.
At first, everything felt perfect. I threw myself into homemaking—cooking, cleaning, tidying. Henry rarely helped, believing a man’s job was to provide, while a woman’s was to keep the home cosy. I didn’t argue. He earned well, and it even felt right to take charge of the housework.
Everything changed when his parents returned.
I’d scrubbed the house spotless—floors, windows, dusted every shelf, organised the wardrobes and kitchen. Baked a cake, made dinner—all so they’d feel welcomed back with warmth. But instead of thanks, I got a slap to my pride. Henry, awkwardly, told me his mum thought I was sloppy.
“Turns out you didn’t clean the toilet, didn’t touch the bath either,” he relayed. “And the kitchen looks like a tornado hit it. Oh, and the cake’s inedible.”
I felt scalded. I’d put in every effort, spared no time or energy, wanted to prove myself as a good homemaker. And in return? Coldness, complaints, humiliation. Any sensible person would’ve thanked me—only someone looking for faults would nitpick. It was clear his mother had already decided against me.
After that, Henry grew distant. He didn’t talk about the wedding with the same excitement, stopped making plans. Fear set in. Could his mother’s opinion really undo everything?
What else must I do to be accepted? Maybe I rushed into agreeing to marry him. If even genuine effort couldn’t win his mother over, what awaited me after the wedding? Endless criticism? Disrespect? A battle for her son’s attention?
Honestly, I regret acting like the lady of the house. Now I see—I should’ve just been a guest. Stayed out of the way, not tried so hard, not overdone it. Maybe then there’d have been no reason for complaints.
Before all this, Henry mentioned wanting us to live with his parents until we saved for our own place. But after this? No. I won’t set foot in that house again. No respect means no presence from me.
Now I’m at a crossroads: keep fighting for this man and his family, losing myself in the process, or step back and ask—do I really want this? Where there’s no respect from the start, love and acceptance won’t grow later.
Maybe it’s not about me. Maybe I’m trying to join a family that doesn’t want me.
