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—not to wash a spoon or peel a potato—and I’m this close to handing her a broom and saying, “Welcome to the real world!” But for now, I’m holding my tongue, though my patience is wearing thinner than butter in a hot pan.
The house belonged to Antony and Paul’s parents, and when we got married, we decided to live together—it’s cheaper, and the place is big enough for all of us. I didn’t mind at first: Paul’s a quiet bloke, 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 get involved. Six months in, though, and it’s clear shyness has nothing to do with it. Chloe’s a master 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 pool money for groceries and take turns cooking. Antony and I handle half the week, Paul occasionally grills meat or makes his signature sandwiches, and Chloe… Well, her turn usually means ordering a pizza or plonking yogurts on the table with a note that says “dinner’s ready.” Fine, if she just hated cooking, but she won’t even wash her own dishes! I once counted—half the mountain of plates I clean each week are her coffee mugs with half-finished lattes. When I ask her to tidy up, she looks at me like I’ve grown a second head and says, “Oh, Victoria, I forgot—I’ll do it tomorrow.” Tomorrow? That tomorrow never comes!
I’ve tried talking to Antony. “Tony,” I say, “your sister-in-law treats us like hired help. Maybe Paul could have a word?” He just laughs. “Vicky, don’t make a fuss. Chloe’s not used to housework. She’s a city girl—her mum did everything.” City girl? So I was raised in a barn? I grew up in London too, but I still peel potatoes and mop 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? And who’s going to feed this lot if I decide I “don’t want to” either?
The other day was the last straw. I spent two hours making a proper lamb roast, Antony’s favourite. Laid the table, called everyone down. Chloe strolls in, piles her plate high, and says, “Victoria, why’s the meat so dry? You should’ve used more gravy.” I nearly dropped my fork. Dry? I slave over the stove just to hear my cooking’s “not up to scratch”? And she didn’t even say thanks—just ate and left her plate on the table. I snapped. “Chloe, if you don’t like it, cook yourself.” She just smirked. “Oh, but you’re so much better at it, Victoria.” Better? So now I’m the official chef of this house?
I’ve been weighing my options. First: go on strike. Stop cooking, cleaning, buying groceries. Let’s see how Chloe likes an empty fridge. But I know Antony and Paul would moan, and I don’t want a row over her. Second: confront her. Say, “Chloe, this isn’t a hotel. Pitch in or eat out.” But she’d either play dumb or cry to Paul, and then I’m the villain. Third: suck it up. Not my style. I won’t be a skivvy in my own home.
Sometimes I dream of renting a flat with Antony and leaving. But this house is his inheritance—he loves it, and I’ve grown fond of the garden and the cosy veranda. I won’t let Chloe drive us out. I even tried being clever: suggested dividing the kitchen into “responsibility zones.” Each handles their own mess. Chloe nodded—then kept drinking coffee from my mug. She’s bulletproof.
My mate Emma suggested, “Give her one fixed chore. Tell her she cooks every Wednesday, no excuses.” I tried it. Assigned Chloe a day. Her response? “Oh, Victoria, I’m busy Wednesdays—why don’t you do it?” Busy? Scrolling Instagram? I’m this close to pinning a rota on the fridge: “Chloe—your day, or go hungry.” Maybe that’ll shake her.
For now, I bite my tongue. I cook, I clean, but every time I see her dirty mug, I imagine handing her a trophy for “Mastery of Laziness.” Antony says he’ll talk to Paul, but I doubt it’ll help. Chloe’s like a cat—walks her own path but eats from my bowl. Still, I’ll find a way to put her in her place. This is our home, and I won’t let one lazy in-law turn it into her personal spa. Until then, I’ll just dream of the day she washes a single plate. Dreams come true, don’t they?
