The Shared Kitchen and the Lazy Sister-in-Law
Anton and I live in his house—well, not entirely his. His younger brother, Paul, and Paul’s wife, Emily, share the place too. We’ve got one kitchen between us, split the shopping bills, and take turns cooking. Sounds like a perfect arrangement, doesn’t it? Except Emily, our dear sister-in-law, seems to think housework isn’t her problem. She won’t lift a finger—won’t wash a spoon or peel a potato. I’m this close to handing her a broom and saying, “Welcome to the real world!” But for now, I’m holding my temper, though it’s wearing thinner than butter in a hot pan.
The house belonged to Anton and Paul’s parents, and when we got married, we all agreed to live together—cheaper that way, and the place is big enough. I didn’t mind at first: Paul’s a quiet bloke, works at a garage, barely around. But Emily… Oh, she’s another story. When they first married, I thought maybe she was shy, didn’t want to intrude. Six months in, though, and it’s clear—shyness has nothing to do with it. Emily’s a champion at dodging chores. She’ll spend hours in her room, scrolling her phone or painting her nails while I’m downstairs cooking dinner for four.
Our system’s simple: we split the groceries and rotate cooking. Anton and I cover half the week, Paul occasionally grills or makes his signature sandwiches, and Emily? Well, her turn means ordering takeaway or plonking a yoghurt on the table with a note: “Dinner’s ready.” And fine, if she hated cooking, but she won’t even wash her own dishes! Last week, I counted—I scrubbed a mountain of plates, half of them her coffee cups with half-drunk lattes. When I ask her to tidy up, she stares at me like I’ve got two heads and says, “Oh, Vicky, I forgot—I’ll do it tomorrow.” Tomorrow? That tomorrow never comes.
I tried talking to Anton. “Ant,” I said, “your sister-in-law treats us like staff. Maybe Paul could say something?” He just laughed. “Vicky, don’t make a fuss. Emily’s not used to housework. She’s a city girl—her mum did everything.” City girl? And I’m what, a farmhand? I grew up in London too, but I still manage to peel spuds and mop floors. When I hinted to Paul, he shrugged. “Emily’s just like that. If she doesn’t want to cook, don’t push her.” Don’t push her? Who’s going to feed this lot if I start “not wanting” too?
The other day was the last straw. I spent two hours making a proper lamb roast, Anton’s favourite. Laid the table, called everyone down. Emily strolls in, piles her plate high, and says, “Vicky, why’s the meat so dry? Should’ve used more gravy.” I nearly dropped my fork. Dry? Two hours at the stove, and that’s all I get? Not even a thank you—just eats and leaves her plate on the table. I snapped, “Emily, if you don’t like it, cook yourself.” She just scoffed. “Oh, I’m no good at it, Vicky—you’re better.” Better? So now I’m the official house chef?
I’ve been weighing options. First—go on strike. Stop cooking, cleaning, shopping. Let’s see how Emily likes an empty fridge. But Anton and Paul would moan, and I don’t want rows over her. Second—lay it out straight. “Emily, this isn’t a hotel. Pitch in or eat out.” But she’ll play clueless or bawl to Paul, and I’ll be the villain. Third—just swallow it. Not my style. I won’t be a maid in my own home.
Sometimes I dream of renting a flat with Anton and leaving. But this house is his inheritance, and I’ve grown fond of it—the garden, the porch, the cosiness. I won’t let Emily ruin that. I even tried cunning: suggested dividing the kitchen into “responsibility zones.” Each handles their own mess. Emily nodded—then kept drinking coffee from my mug. She’s bulletproof.
My mate advised, “Vicky, give her one fixed chore. Say she cooks every Wednesday.” I tried. She whined, “Oh, I’m busy Wednesdays—you do it?” Busy? Scrolling Instagram? I’m ready to pin a rota up: “Emily—cook or starve.” Maybe that’ll wake her up.
For now, I bite my tongue. Cook, clean, but every dirty cup of hers makes me imagine awarding her a medal for “masterful laziness.” Anton swears he’ll talk to Paul, but I doubt it’ll help. Emily’s like a cat—walks her own path, but eats from my bowl. I’ll find a way to put her in her place. This house is ours, and I won’t let one lazy in-law turn it into her comfort zone. Until then, I’ll just dream of the day she washes a single plate. Dreams come true, right?
