The Shared Kitchen and the Lazy Sister-in-Law
Antony and I live in his house—well, not entirely his. His younger brother Paul and his wife Chloë share the place with us. We’ve got one kitchen between us, split the groceries and bills down the middle, and take turns cooking. Sounds like the perfect arrangement, right? Except Chloë, our darling sister-in-law, seems to think housekeeping is beneath her. She won’t lift a finger—not to wash a spoon, not to peel a potato. I’m this close to shoving a broom into her hands 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 agreed to live together—cheaper that way, and the place is big enough. I didn’t mind at first. Paul’s easygoing, works at a garage, and is hardly ever home. But Chloë? Oh, she’s another story. When she and Paul first married, I thought she was just shy, hesitant to step on toes. Six months in, though, I realised shyness had nothing to do with it. Chloë’s a master at dodging work. She’ll lounge in her room for hours, scrolling her phone or painting her nails, while I’m downstairs cooking dinner for four.
Our system’s simple: split the shopping, take turns cooking. Antony and I handle half the week, Paul grills sausages or makes his signature toasties now and then, and Chloë? Well, her turn means ordering takeaway or plonking a yoghurt on the table with a note: *Dinner’s served.* And fine, maybe she just hates cooking—but she won’t even wash a dish. Last week, I counted—half the plates I scrubbed had her leftover lattes drying in them. And when I ask her to clean up? She blinks 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 tried talking to Antony. *Tony,* I said, *your sister-in-law treats us like staff. Maybe Paul should say something?* He just laughed. *Soph, don’t make a fuss. Chloë’s not used to housework. She’s a city girl—her mum did everything.* A city girl? And what, I was raised in a barn? I grew up in London too, but I still peel spuds and mop floors. When I nudged Paul about it, he shrugged. *Chloë’s Chloë. If she doesn’t want to cook, don’t force her.* Don’t force her? Then who feeds this lot when I decide to *not want* to either?
The other night was the last straw. I spent hours making a proper lamb roast, Antony’s favourite. Set the table, called everyone down. Chloë wanders in, piles her plate high, and says, *Sophie, why’s the meat dry? You should’ve basted it more.* I nearly dropped the carving knife. *Dry?* Two hours over a hot stove, and that’s what I get? Not even a *thanks*—just a dirty plate left behind. I snapped. *Chloë, if you don’t like it, cook it yourself.* She just smirked. *Oh, I’m rubbish at it. You’re so much better.* Better? So now I’m the official house chef?
I’ve been weighing my options. Option one: strike. Stop cooking, cleaning, shopping. Let’s see how long before Chloë starts singing a different tune when the fridge holds nothing but her fancy yoghurts. But Antony and Paul would moan, and I don’t want a row over her. Option two: lay it out. *Chloë, this isn’t a hotel. Either pitch in or eat out.* But she’d play clueless or cry to Paul, and I’d be the villain. Option three: grin and bear it. Not my style. I won’t be a maid in my own home.
Sometimes I dream of renting a flat with Antony and leaving. But this house is his family’s, and I love it too—the garden, the conservatory, the memories. I won’t let Chloë chase us out. I even tried being clever—suggested dividing the kitchen into *responsibility zones.* Everyone handles their own mess. Chloë nodded… then drank her coffee from my mug. She’s bulletproof.
My mate Emma told me, *Give her a fixed chore. Say she cooks every Wednesday, full stop.* I tried. Chloë’s reply? *Oh, Sophie, I’m busy Wednesdays—you do it?* Busy? Scrolling Instagram? I’m tempted to pin a rota to the fridge: *Chloë’s night—takeaway or starvation.* Maybe that’ll wake her up.
For now, I bite my lip. Cook, clean, but every time I find her dirty mug, I imagine awarding her a gold medal in *professional idleness.* Antony swears he’ll talk to Paul, but I doubt it’ll help. Chloë’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 in-law turn it into her personal retreat. Until then, I’ll dream of the day she washes a single plate. Dreams come true… don’t they?
