Shared Kitchen and the Lazy Sister-in-Law
Anthony and I live in his house—well, not entirely his. Alongside us dwell his younger brother Paul and his wife Chloe. We share one kitchen, split grocery bills, and take turns cooking. Sounds like the perfect commune, doesn’t it? Except, our dear Chloe seems to have decided that housework is beneath her. She won’t lift a finger—no washing up, no peeling potatoes—and I’m this close to handing her a broom with a cheerful, “Welcome to adulthood!” But for now, I’m holding my tongue, though my patience is vanishing faster than butter in a hot pan.
The house was left to Anthony and Paul by their parents, and when we got married, we all agreed to live together—cheaper that way, and the place is spacious enough. I didn’t mind: Paul’s a quiet bloke, works at a garage, barely home. But Chloe… Oh, Chloe’s another story. When she and Paul first married, I thought she was just shy, reluctant to intrude on shared duties. Six months in, I realised: shyness had nothing to do with it. Chloe is an Olympic champion in dodging chores. She’ll lounge in her room for hours, scrolling through her phone or painting her nails, while I’m downstairs cooking dinner for four.
Our system’s simple: groceries split, cooking rotated. Anthony and I handle half the week, Paul occasionally grills meat or whips up his signature toasties, and Chloe… Well, her turn usually means ordering a takeaway or plonking a pot of yogurt on the table with a breezy, “Dinner’s served.” And fine, if she hated cooking, but she won’t even wash her own dishes! I once counted: half the mountain of plates I scrub in a week are her half-finished coffee mugs. When I ask her to tidy up, she blinks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head and says, “Oh, Vicky, I forgot—I’ll do it tomorrow.” Tomorrow? That mythical day never comes!
I’ve tried talking to Anthony. “Ant,” I say, “your sister-in-law treats us like staff. Maybe Paul could have a word?” He just chuckles. “Vicky, don’t exaggerate. Chloe’s just not used to housework. She’s a city girl—her mum did everything.” City girl? And what, I was raised in a barn? I grew up in London too, but somehow I manage to peel spuds and mop floors. When I nudged Paul, he shrugged. “Chloe’s just Chloe. If she doesn’t want to cook, don’t force her.” Don’t force her? Then who’s going to feed this lot when I decide I “don’t want to” either?
The other day was the final straw. I made a proper lamb stew, the kind Anthony loves. Two hours at the stove, table set, everyone called down. Chloe drifts in, piles her plate high, and says, “Vicky, why’s the meat so tough? You should’ve simmered it longer.” I nearly dropped my fork. Tough? That’s all I get after slaving over a hot stove? Not even a “thanks”—just a critique before she flounces off, leaving her dirty plate behind. I snapped. “Chloe, if you don’t like it, cook yourself.” She just smirked. “Oh, Vicky, you’re so much better at it.” Better? So now I’m the resident chef?
I’ve weighed my options. Option one: go on strike. Stop cooking, cleaning, shopping. Let’s see how Chloe fares when the fridge holds nothing but her precious yogurts. But I know Anthony and Paul would moan, and I’d rather not row with my husband over her. Option two: confront her. Say, “Chloe, this isn’t a hotel. Pitch in or eat out.” But I dread the waterworks or Paul taking her side. Option three: suck it up. Not my style. I won’t play housemaid in my own home.
Sometimes I dream of renting a flat with Anthony and leaving. But this house is his inheritance, and I’ve grown fond of it—the garden, the porch, the cosy nooks. I won’t let Chloe drive us out. I even tried sly tactics: suggested dividing kitchen duties into “zones.” Each responsible for their own mess. Chloe nodded… then sipped her coffee from my mug. Honestly, she’s bulletproof.
My mate Emma advised, “Give her one fixed chore. Say she cooks every Wednesday, full stop.” I tried. Chloe’s response? “Oh, Vicky, I’m busy Wednesdays—you do it?” Busy? Busy staring at Instagram? I’m tempted to pin a roster to the fridge: “Chloe’s night—takeaway or starve.” Might be the only way to shift her.
For now, I’m biting my tongue. Cooking, cleaning, but every time I spot her dirty mug, I mentally award her a gold medal in “masterful laziness.” Anthony swears he’ll talk to Paul, but I’m not holding my breath. Chloe’s like a cat—walks her own path but eats from my bowl. Still, I’ll find a way. This house is ours, and I won’t let one lazy sister-in-law turn it into her personal spa. Until then, I’ll keep dreaming of the day she washes a single plate. Dreams do come true… right?
