A Shared Kitchen and a Lazy Sister-in-Law
Antony and I live in his house—well, not exactly his. Alongside us are his younger brother Paul and his wife Gemma. We share one kitchen, split the grocery bills, and take turns cooking. Sounds like the perfect arrangement, doesn’t it? Except Gemma, our dear sister-in-law, seems to think housework is beneath her. She won’t wash a single spoon or peel a potato, and I’m this close to handing her a broom and saying, “Welcome to the real world!” For now, I’m holding it together, but 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 living together made sense—cheaper, and the place is big enough for everyone. I didn’t mind at first: Paul’s easygoing, works at a garage, and is hardly ever home. Gemma, though… Well, that’s another story. When they first married, I thought maybe she was shy, hesitant to intrude on household matters. But six months later, it’s clear shyness has nothing to do with it. Gemma’s a champion at dodging chores. She’ll spend hours in her room scrolling through her phone or painting her nails while I’m downstairs cooking dinner for four.
Our system’s simple: we split groceries and rotate cooking. Antony and I handle half the week, Paul occasionally grills burgers or makes his signature sandwiches, and Gemma… Well, her turn usually means ordering takeaway or plonking a pot of yoghurt on the table with a note saying “dinner’s ready.” Even if she hates cooking, you’d think she’d at least wash her own dishes. I once counted the pile in the sink—half of it was her half-finished coffee mugs. When I ask her to clean up, she stares at me like I’ve got two heads and says, “Oh, Emily, I’ll do it tomorrow.” Tomorrow? That day never comes!
I’ve tried talking to Antony. “Tony,” I say, “your sister-in-law treats us like staff. Maybe Paul should have a word?” He just laughs. “Don’t make a fuss, Em. Gemma’s not used to housework—she’s a city girl, her mum did everything.” City girl? And what am I, some country bumpkin? I grew up in London too, but I still manage to peel potatoes and mop floors. When I hinted to Paul, he shrugged. “Gemma’s just like that. If she doesn’t want to cook, don’t force her.” Don’t force her? Who’s going to feed this lot if I decide I don’t want to either?
The other day was the last straw. I made a proper roast—beef, Yorkshire puddings, the works. Two hours of work, table set, everyone called down. Gemma strolls in, piles her plate high, then says, “Emily, why’s the beef so dry? You should’ve basted it more.” I nearly dropped my fork. Dry? I spent two hours on this meal, and that’s the thanks I get? She didn’t even say cheers—just ate, left her plate on the table, and disappeared. I snapped, “Gemma, if you don’t like it, cook it yourself.” She just smirked. “Oh, but you’re so much better at it, Em.” Better? So now I’m the official chef of this house?
I’ve been weighing options. One: go on strike. Stop cooking, cleaning, shopping. Let’s see how Gemma copes when the fridge holds nothing but her yogurt. But I know Antony and Paul would moan, and I don’t want a row with my husband over her. Two: lay it out plainly. “Gemma, this isn’t a hotel—either help or eat out.” But I reckon she’ll play dumb or cry to Paul, and I’ll end up the villain. Three: suck it up. Not my style. I won’t be a maid in my own home.
Sometimes I dream of renting a flat with Antony and moving out. But this house is his inheritance, he loves it, and I’ve grown fond of the garden and the cosy conservatory. I won’t let Gemma chase us out. I even tried sly tactics—suggested dividing kitchen duties. “Each person handles their own mess.” Gemma nodded, then drank her coffee from my favourite mug. She’s impossible.
My mate Jess advised, “Give her one fixed chore—tell her she cooks every Wednesday, no excuses.” I tried it. “Gemma, you’re on dinner this Wednesday.” Her reply? “Oh, Emily, I’m busy that day—you do it?” Busy doing what? Scrolling Instagram? I’m tempted to pin a rota to the fridge: “Gemma’s turn—takeaway or starve.” Maybe that’ll get through.
For now, I’m biting my tongue. I cook, I clean, but every time I see her dirty mug, I imagine handing her an award for “professional laziness.” Antony says he’ll talk to Paul, but I doubt it’ll help. Gemma’s like a cat—walks her own path 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 lounge. Until then, I’ll just keep dreaming of the day she washes a single plate. Dreams come true, right?
