— There’s No Need for You to Sit at the Table. You Should Be Serving Us! — Declared My Mother-in-Law. I Stood by the Stove in the Quiet Morning Kitchen — Wearing a Wrinkled Pyjama and a Messy Bun. The Air Smelled of Toast and Strong Coffee. My 7-Year-Old Daughter Sat on a Stool Beside the Table, Nose Buried in Her Sketchbook, Carefully Drawing Colourful Swirls with Felt-Tip Pens. — Are You Making Those Diet Toasts Again? — Came a Voice Behind Me. I Jumped. At the Door Stood My Mother-in-Law — A Stern-Faced Woman with a Voice That Allowed No Argument. She Was in Her Dressing Gown, Hair Pulled Back Tight, Lips Pursed. — By the Way, Yesterday I Ate Whatever I Could Find! — She Continued, Smacking a Tea Towel Against the Table Edge. — No Soup, No Proper Food. Can You Make Eggs? Properly, Not with Your… Fancy Modern Ideas! I Switched Off the Hob and Opened the Fridge. A Tight Spiral of Anger Swirled in My Chest, but I Swallowed It. Not in Front of My Child. And Not in a Place Where Every Inch Seemed to Whisper, ‘You’re Only Here Temporarily.’ — I’ll Sort It Now — I Said, Struggling Not to Let My Voice Tremble. My Daughter Didn’t Look Up from Her Pens, but Kept a Careful Eye on Her Grandma — Quiet, Small, Alert. ‘We’ll Stay with My Mum for a Bit’ When My Husband Suggested Moving in with his Mum, It Sounded Sensible Enough. — We’ll Stay at Mum’s — Just for a Little While. Two Months, Tops. It’s Close to Work and Our Mortgage Will Be Approved Soon. She Doesn’t Mind. I Hesitated. Not Because I Was at Odds with My Mother-in-Law. No. We Were Always Polite. But Deep Down I Knew the Truth: Two Adult Women in One Kitchen — That’s a Minefield. And My Mother-in-Law Was Someone Who Needed Order, Control, and Moral Judgements Like Oxygen. But There Was Little Choice. Our Old Flat Sold Quickly, the New One Wasn’t Ready, So the Three of Us Moved into My Mother-in-Law’s Two-Bedroom Flat. ‘Just Temporarily.’ Daily Life Became All About Control The First Few Days Passed Quietly. My Mother-in-Law Was Particularly Polite — Even Put an Extra Chair Out for My Daughter and Served Us Pie. But By Day Three, the ‘Rules’ Started. — There’s Order in My House — She Declared Over Breakfast. — Up at Eight. Shoes Only on the Rack. Food Must Be Agreed on. TV Down Low, I’m Sensitive to Noise. My Husband Smiled and Waved It Off: — Mum, It’s Just for a Bit. We Can Cope. I Nodded Silently. But ‘We Can Cope’ Began to Sound More like a Sentence. I Began to Disappear A Week Went By. Then Another. The Regime Got Tighter. My Mother-in-Law Removed My Child’s Drawings from the Table: — They’re in the Way. She Took Off the Checked Tablecloth I’d Put On: — Impractical. My Cereal Vanished from the Shelf: — Been There Ages — Must Be Off. She ‘Moved’ My Shampoos: — Don’t Want Them Lying About. I Didn’t Feel Like a Guest, but Someone with No Voice, No Right to an Opinion. My Food Was ‘Wrong.’ My Habits — ‘Unnecessary.’ My Child — ‘Too Noisy.’ And My Husband Kept Saying the Same Thing: — Just Bear with It. This Is Mum’s Place. She’s Always Been Like This. Day by Day, I Was Losing Myself. Less and Less Remained of the Woman Who Was Once Calm and Confident. Now It Was Just Endless Adjusting and Enduring. A Life Ruled by Rules That Weren’t Mine Every Morning I’d Get Up at Six Just to Get to the Bathroom First, Cook Porridge, Rush to Get My Daughter Ready… and Avoid My Mother-in-Law’s Criticism. Each Evening I’d Make Two Dinners. One for Us. And One to Her Standards. No Onion. Then With Onion. Then Only Using Her Saucepan. Then Only Using Her Frying Pan. — I Don’t Ask for Much — She’d Say Disapprovingly. — Just Cook Properly. The Way It Should Be. The Day the Humiliation Became Public One Morning I’d Just Washed My Face and Turned On the Kettle When My Mother-in-Law Walked into the Kitchen, as if It Was Perfectly Normal. — My Friends Are Coming Over Today. At Two. You’re Home, So You’ll Prepare the Table. Pickles, Salad, Something with Tea — Nothing Special. ‘Nothing Special’ Always Meant a Feast with Her. — Oh… I Didn’t Know. Ingredients… — You’ll Buy Them. I Made a List. Nothing Difficult. So I Got Dressed and Went to the Shop. Bought Everything: Chicken, Potatoes, Dill, Apples for Pie, Biscuits… Came Back and Started Cooking Non-Stop. By Two Everything Was Ready: Table Set, Chicken Roasted, Salad Fresh, Pie Golden. Along Came Three Retired Ladies — Neat Hairstyles and Perfume from Another Era. And Straight Away, I Knew I Wasn’t ‘One of the Group.’ I Was the ‘Waitress.’ — Come Here, Sit by Us — Smiled My Mother-in-Law. — You’ll Serve Us. — Serve You? — I Echoed. — What’s the Problem? We’re All Older. It’s Not Hard for You. So There I Was: Carrying Trays, Spoons, Bread. ‘Give Me Some Tea.’ ‘Pass the Sugar.’ ‘Salad’s Gone.’ — The Chicken’s a Bit Dry — Complained One. — You Overdid the Pie — Said Another. I Grinned and Bore It. Cleared Plates. Poured Tea. No One Asked If I’d Like to Sit Down. Or Take a Breather. — Isn’t It Nice Having a Young Housewife Around? — My Mother-in-Law Declared with Mock Warmth. — Everything Depends on Her! And Then… Something Inside Me Finally Snapped. That Night, I Told the Truth When the Guests Left, I Washed Up, Packed Away Leftovers, Washed the Tablecloth. Then Sat on the Edge of the Sofa with an Empty Mug. Outside, It Was Getting Dark. My Daughter Slept Curled Up on the Bed. My Husband Was Next to Me — Lost in His Phone. — Listen… — I Said Quiet but Firm. — I Can’t Do This Anymore. He Looked Up, Surprised. — We Live like Strangers. I Feel like I’m Just Here to Serve Everyone. And You… Do You Even See This? He Didn’t Reply. — This Isn’t a Home. It’s a Life Where I’m Constantly Adjusting and Silent. The Child and I Are Both Stuck Here. I’m Done with Being Convenient and Invisible. He Nodded… Slowly. — I Get It… Sorry I Didn’t See It Sooner. We’ll Find a Flat. Doesn’t Matter What — As Long as It’s Ours. We Started Searching That Night. Our Home — Small but Ours The New Flat Was Tiny. The Landlord Had Left Old Furniture. The Linoleum Squeaked. But When I Stepped Over the Doorstep… I Felt Light. Like I’d Finally Found My Voice Again. — Here We Are — My Husband Sighed, Setting Down the Bags. My Mother-in-Law Didn’t Say a Word. She Didn’t Even Try to Stop Us. I Didn’t Know If She Was Hurt, or Just Realised She’d Gone Too Far. A Week Passed. Mornings Began with Music. My Child Drew on the Floor. My Husband Made Coffee. And I Watched and Smiled. No Stress. No Rushing. No ‘Just Bear with It.’ — Thank You — He Said One Morning, Hugging Me. — For Speaking Up. I Looked Him in the Eyes: — Thank You for Hearing Me. Life Wasn’t Perfect Now. But This Was Our Home. With Our Rules. Our Noise. Our Life. And It Was Real. ❓ What about you — If You Were in This Woman’s Shoes, Would You Last ‘Just for a Little While,’ or Would You Have Walked Out in the First Week?

Author Emily TaylorReading 7 minViews 1

You dont need to sit at the table. You should be serving us, my mother-in-law announced sharply.

I stood next to the cooker in the chill of the morning kitchen, hair hurriedly tied back, still wearing my crumpled pyjamas. The air hung thick with the scent of toast and strong English breakfast tea.

At the little wooden stool by the table, my seven-year-old daughter sat scribbling colourful curls with her markers, nose buried in her sketchbook.

Are you making those slimming slices again? came the voice behind me.

I jumped.

Gracemy mother-in-lawstood at the doorway, mouth pursed, bathrobe knotted tightly, hair swept up in a severe bun. Her presence seemed to demand obedience.

Ill have you know I had to cobble together whatever for lunch yesterday, she continued, snapping a tea towel onto the edge of the counter. No proper soup, nothing like a real meal. Can you even cook eggs for once? Proper ones, not those trendy concoctions of yours!

I flicked off the cooker and opened the fridge, biting back the coil of anger winding in my chest. Not in front of my child. And not here, where every square inch echoed, Youre only here for now.

Right away, I muttered, turning so she wouldnt see my trembling.

My daughter kept her eyes fixed on the bright markers, but watched her grandmother warily from the corner of her gazequiet, smaller than usual, on edge.

Well live at my mums place, my husband had said.

He made it sound sensible, rational. Temporary.

Well stay with herjust for a little bit. Two months at most. Its close to work and well have the mortgage sorted soon. Mum doesnt mind.

I hesitated. Not because there was bad blood with Gracewe were always civil, on the surface. But I knew well:

Two grown women in one kitchenits a minefield.

And Grace was obsessed with order, control, and her own brand of moral correctness.

But there was no true choice.

We sold our old flat at lightning speed, and the new one was still far from ready. So the three of us squeezed into Graces two-bedroom flat.

Just for now.

Control invaded our daily lives.

The first few days passed quietly. Grace was almost pointedly politeshe brought out an extra chair for my daughter and treated us to her homemade shortbread.

But by the third morning, the rules began.

Theres order in my house, she declared over breakfast. Up by eight. Shoes only in the tray. Groceries must be agreed beforehand. And the telly, lower pleaseIm sensitive to noise.

My husband laughed it off, waving her away.

Mum, were only here for a bit. Well manage.

I nodded, silent, swallowing the word manage like a sentence.

And day by day, I started disappearing.

A week passed. Then another.

Her grip tightened.

Grace removed my daughters drawings from the tableClutter.

She whipped off the tartan tablecloth I’d spreadImpractical.

She tossed my cerealIts been sitting here ages, must be off.

She moved my shampoosCant be having them in the way.

I felt less like a guest, more like someone without a voice, without a right to exist.

My food was wrong.

My habitsunnecessary.

My childfar too noisy.

My husband kept repeating,

Just be patient. Its Mums place. Shes always been like this.

But I day after day, lost little pieces of myself.

The woman whod once been calm and confident almost vanished, replaced by a shadow forever accommodating, forever silent.

Life by rules that werent mine.

Every morning, I woke at six, scrambled to nab the bathroom first, cooked porridge, dressed my daughter, desperate to avoid Graces scorn.

In the evening, I cooked two dinners.

One for us.

One by the book for her.

No onions.

Then with onions.

Then in only her saucepan.

Then only in her frying pan.

I dont ask much, shed lecture, just the decent way. As it should be.

The day humiliation went public.

One morning, Id barely washed my face and switched on the kettle when Grace burst into the kitchen, as if privacy were unthinkable.

My friends are coming today, at two. Youre home, so youll prepare the table. A few pickles, a salad, something for teajust the basics.

With Grace, just the basics meant a feast.

OhI didnt know. The shopping

Youll buy whats needed. Ive written a list. Nothing difficult.

So I put on my coat and walked to the shop.

Bought everything:

Chicken, potatoes, fresh dill, apples for pie, biscuits

Back home, it was non-stop cooking.

By two, the table was laid perfectly, the chicken roasted, the salad crisp, the pie elegantly golden.

Three ladies arrived, all coiffed and perfumed with scents of another era.

Within moments, I realisedI was not one of them.

I was the help.

Come, come sit here by us, Grace smiled sweetly. So you can serve.

Serve you? I echoed.

Whats the fuss? Were oldersurely its no bother for you.

So there I was again:

Tray in hand, ladling out soup and slicing bread.

More tea, dear.

A touch more sugar.

The salads run out.

This chickens a bit dry one grumbled.

Youve overbaked the pie, sniffed another.

I gritted my teeth. I smiled. I cleared plates, poured tea.

No one asked if I wanted to sit.

Or breathe.

How lovely it is to have a young woman about the house! Grace declared with feigned warmth. Everything depends on her!

In that moment something inside broke.

That evening, I finally spoke my truth.

When the guests left, I scrubbed every dish, packed away leftovers, washed the tablecloth.

Then I sat at the far end of the sofa, an empty mug dangling from my hand.

Night had crept in outside.

My daughter curled in sleep like a little fox.

My husband tapped away on his phone.

Listen I whispered, firm, but soft. I cant go on like this.

He looked up at me, genuinely taken aback.

Were living like strangers. Im just here to serve everyone. And you do you see it?

He was silent.

This isn’t a home. Its a life where Im always accommodating, always quiet. Im here with our child. I cant wait more months. I cant always be convenient and unseen.

He nodded slowly.

I understand Sorry I didnt realise sooner. Well find a flatanything. At least itll be ours.

We started looking that very night.

Our own placeeven if tiny.

The flat was small. The landlord left ancient furniture. The floors creaked and moaned.

But the moment I stepped inside I felt free. As if my voice had finally returned.

There we made it, sighed my husband, dropping the bags.

Grace said nothing. She didnt try to stop us.

I couldnt tell if she was hurt, or just understood shed gone too far.

A week went by.

Mornings began with music.

My daughter drew on the floor.