The Shared Kitchen and the Lazy Sister-in-Law
Antony and I live in his house—well, not entirely his. Along with us are his younger brother Paul and his wife, Chloe. We share one kitchen, split the grocery bills, and take turns cooking. Sounds like the perfect arrangement, doesn’t it? Except Chloe, our dear sister-in-law, seems to think housework is beneath her. 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 keeping my cool, though my patience is wearing thinner than butter in a hot pan.
The house was left to Antony and Paul by their parents, and when we got married, we decided to live together—more economical, plus the place is spacious. I didn’t mind at first. Paul is easygoing, works at a garage, and is hardly ever home. But Chloe… Oh, she’s another story. When she and Paul first married, I thought she was just shy, hesitant to jump into shared responsibilities. Six months later, I realized shyness had nothing to do with it. Chloe is an expert at dodging chores. She’ll lounge in her room for hours, scrolling through her phone or painting her nails, while I’m in the kitchen cooking dinner for four.
Our system is simple: we split the groceries and rotate cooking duties. Antony and I handle half the week, Paul occasionally grills meat or makes his signature sandwiches, and Chloe? Well, her turn usually means ordering pizza or plonking a yoghurt pot on the table with a note that says, “Dinner’s ready.” And it’s not just cooking—she won’t even wash her own dishes! Last week, I tallied it up: half the mountain of plates I scrubbed were her half-finished latte mugs. When I ask her to clean up, she stares at me like I’ve got two heads and says, “Oh, Sophie, I forgot. I’ll do it tomorrow.” Tomorrow? That tomorrow never comes!
I’ve tried talking to Antony. “Tony,” I’ll say, “your sister-in-law treats us like hired help. Maybe Paul could have a word?” He just laughs. “Sophie, don’t exaggerate. Chloe’s just not used to housework. She’s a city girl—her mum did everything for her.” A city girl? So that makes me some country bumpkin? I grew up in London too, but that doesn’t stop me from peeling spuds or mopping floors. When I hinted to Paul, he shrugged. “Chloe’s just being Chloe. If she doesn’t want to cook, don’t force her.” Don’t force her? Then who’s going to feed this lot if I decide to “not want to” either?
The other day was the last straw. I spent two hours making a proper lamb roast, just how Antony likes it. Called everyone to the table, Chloe comes down, piles her plate high, and says, “Sophie, why’s the meat dry? Should’ve used more gravy.” I nearly dropped my fork. Dry? I stood at the stove for two hours just to hear my cooking critiqued? And not even a “thank you”—she ate, then left her dirty plate on the table. I snapped, “Chloe, if you don’t like it, cook yourself.” She just smirked. “Oh, I’m rubbish at it, Sophie. You’re so much better.” Better? So now I’m the official house chef?
I’ve been weighing my options. First idea: go on strike. Stop cooking, cleaning, shopping. Let’s see how Chloe copes when the fridge holds nothing but her fancy yoghurts. But I know Antony and Paul would whinge, and I don’t want a row with my husband over her. Second idea: be blunt. Say, “Chloe, this isn’t a hotel—pull your weight or eat out.” But I bet she’d play dumb or cry to Paul, and I’d be the villain. Third idea: grin and bear it. Not my style. I won’t be a maid in my own home.
Sometimes I dream of renting a flat and moving out. But this house is Antony’s family home—he loves it, and I’ve grown fond of the garden and the cosy conservatory. I won’t let Chloe drive us out. I even tried a sneaky tactic: suggested we divide the kitchen into “responsibility zones.” Everyone handles their own dishes and shopping. Chloe nodded—then kept sipping coffee from my mug. She’s impossible.
My mate Emma advised, “Sophie, give her a fixed chore. Tell her she cooks every Wednesday, no excuses.” I tried it. Assigned her a night—she said, “Oh, Sophie, I’m busy Wednesday. You do it?” Busy? Busy watching TikTok? I’m tempted to pin a rota on the fridge: “Chloe, it’s your night—pizza or starvation.” Maybe that’ll shock her into action.
For now, I’m biting my tongue. Cooking, cleaning, but every time I see her dirty cup, I imagine handing her a gold medal for “world-class laziness.” Antony says he’ll talk to Paul, but I doubt it’ll change a thing. Chloe’s like a cat—does as she pleases, but eats from my bowl. Still, I’ll find a way to put my foot down. This house is ours, and I won’t let one lazy sister-in-law turn it into her personal retreat. Until then, I’ll dream of the day she washes a single plate. Dreams do come true, don’t they?
