**Hunger by the Clock: Why I’m Escaping Life at My Mother-in-Law’s**
I never imagined my life turning into a military boot camp—where every move is policed, and straying from the routine is punished… by starvation. But here I am, living like I’m under house arrest with no say in anything, all because my husband and I are temporarily staying at his mother’s.
You’d think it wouldn’t be so bad—just a typical tale of a young couple saving up for their own place. Me and James were determined to get on the property ladder, secure a mortgage, and eventually settle into our own cosy nest. While we prepped, his mum was off helping James’s sister with her newborn, leaving us her three-bed semi. Little did I know the “welcome back” gift awaiting us when she decided to return.
Life without her was peaceful. I kept everything spotless, scrubbing every pot to a shine and arranging the cupboards like a Tetris champion—just so she wouldn’t find fault. Turns out, she couldn’t care less about cleanliness. The real issue? The *schedule*. Breakfast at 7:30 sharp. Dinner before 8 p.m. Miss the slot? Tough luck. No food for you.
I work in graphic design, burning the midnight oil on last-minute edits and deadlines. Sometimes my boss lets me start late—but heavens forbid I wander into the kitchen past 10 a.m. The fridge door slams shut in my face. According to her, I’ve “slept through breakfast,” so I must not be hungry. *Even if it’s my own yoghurt in there.*
Dinner’s no better. If James and I come home late, I’m forbidden from eating without him. And if he rolls in past eight? Straight to bed on an empty stomach. Why? Because *“rules are rules.”* When I dared suggest adults eat when they’re hungry, I got the classic *“my house, my rules”* speech. Oh, did I mention we chip in for the utilities? Not that it grants us any rights.
Then there’s the bathroom debacle. I love a long soak after a stressful day—but no. Daytime baths are *“a waste of water”* (never mind the water meter *she* insisted on installing). *“People should be productive, not lounging in bubbles.”* If I lock the door, she knocks. Or worse, jiggles the handle. Yes, really. Absurd doesn’t even cover it.
Weekends are pure torture. Sleep past 10? Breakfast is cancelled, day ruined. *“Lazy layabouts, sleeping till noon!”* she mutters, slamming cupboard doors for effect. I’m not relaxing—I’m surviving.
Poor James grew up with this. To him, it’s just *“how Mum is.”* But to me? It’s bonkers. I refuse to tiptoe around someone who won’t let me have a spoonful of porridge because *“the clock says no.”*
I don’t want to wake up on command like a schoolgirl denied lunch for tardiness. I won’t beg permission for a bath or justify skipping cereal at dawn. I’m a grown woman. I pay my way. I work hard. I’m a *human being*, for goodness’ sake.
I’ve given James an ultimatum: Either we move back to our flat, or I’m out. I’m not his mum’s enemy—but I’m not her indentured servant, either. I want to *live*, not exist by a timer.
Sometimes you have to trade comfort for freedom. And I’m ready. Because my life isn’t a spreadsheet or a drill sergeant’s whistle. I’d rather be happy than *“fed on time.”*
