And theres no need for you to sit at the table. You should be serving us! declared my mother-in-law.
There I was, standing by the cooker in the quiet morning kitchen crumpled pyjamas, hair hastily tied back. The whole room smelled of toasted bread and strong tea.
On the stool near the table sat my seven-year-old daughter, nose almost in her sketchbook, drawing colourful swirls with felt-tip pens.
Making those diet toasts again, are you? came a voice behind me.
I jumped.
My mother-in-law stood in the doorway stern-faced, dressing gown pulled tight, hair up in a no-nonsense bun, lips pursed with disapproval.
By the way, yesterday I just had whatever was in the fridge for lunch! she carried on, snapping the tea towel on the tables edge. No proper meal at all. Could you at least make eggs the proper way? Not those strange modern things of yours!
I turned off the cooker and opened the fridge.
I could feel a tight coil of anger in my chest, but I swallowed it down. Not in front of Daisy. And not in a place where every inch seemed to whisper: Youre only here on borrowed time.
Ill get on with it now I managed, turning away so she wouldnt see my voice trembling.
My daughter Daisy didnt lift her head from the felt-tips, but I saw her watching her nan from the corner of her eye quiet, tense, ready to duck for cover.
Well stay at my mums for a bit
When my husband Tom suggested we move in with his mum, it sounded reasonable enough.
Well stay with her just for a short while. Two months at most. Its near work, and the mortgage should come through soon. She doesnt mind.
I hesitated. Not because I was at war with his mum. No, we always treated each other politely. But I knew the truth:
two grown women in one kitchen that was begging for trouble.
Toms mum was obsessed with neatness, control, and passing moral judgement.
But we didnt have many options.
Our old flat sold quickly and the new place wasnt quite ready. And so the three of us squeezed into her two-bed flat.
Only temporary.
Control became the norm
The first few days went smoothly enough. She was, if anything, unusually polite, even digging up an extra chair for Daisy and treating us to home-baked apple tart.
But by the third morning, the house rules had started.
In my home, we do things by the rules she declared over breakfast. Up at eight. Shoes only in the shoe rack. Groceries need to be agreed upon. And keep the telly down, Im very sensitive to noise.
Tom just smiled and waved it off:
Mum, its only for a bit. Well manage.
I nodded quietly.
But the word manage started to feel more like a sentence.
I began to disappear
A week passed. Then another.
The rules got stricter by the day.
She removed Daisys drawings from the table:
Theyre in the way.
The checked tablecloth Id put down vanished:
Not practical.
My cereal just disappeared from the cupboard:
Been there too long, probably stale.
My shampoos got moved:
Cant have them in the way.
I didnt feel like a guest; more like someone with no say, no voice.
My food was wrong.
My habits unnecessary.
My daughter too noisy.
And Tom just kept saying:
Come on, hold on. Its Mums place. Shes always been like this.
Me? Day by day, I was fading away.
Less and less left of the woman I used to be calm and self-assured. What remained was an endless routine of tiptoeing and staying out of the way.
A life by everyone elses rules
Every morning, I got up at six, nipped into the bathroom first, made porridge, got Daisy sorted all so I could avoid crossing paths with Toms mum.
At night, I made two different dinners.
One for us.
And one proper for her.
No onions.
Then with onions.
Then only in her own saucepan.
Then only in her frying pan.
I dont want much shed say, some pointed look in her eyes Just like everyone else. The normal way.
The day it became too much
One morning, Id just managed to wash my face and flick on the kettle when Toms mum came striding into the kitchen like she owned the place.
Ive got some friends coming over this afternoon, at two. Youre in today, so youll set the table. Gherkins, a bit of salad, a few things for tea just the usual.
With her, the usual meant a spread fit for Christmas.
Oh I didnt realise. I need to get some bits
Youll go out and buy it. Ive written a list. Nothing complicated.
So off I trudged to Sainsburys, list in hand.
I bought everything:
chicken, potatoes, dill, apples for tart, biscuits
Came back and cooked non-stop.
By two the table was laid. Chicken roasted. Salad fresh. Tart golden.
Three old ladies arrived neat perms, floral dresses, the sort of powdery perfume your nan used to wear.
From the off, it was obvious: I wasnt one of them.
I was the help.
Do sit here, love, Toms mum smiled at me to serve us.
To serve you? I echoed.
Come now, were not young anymore. You dont mind, do you?
And so there I was:
tray in hand, spoons, bread rolls.
Pour us some tea.
Pass the sugar.
Weve finished the salad.
The chickens a bit dry, grumbled one.
Youve overdone your tart, tutted another.
I bit my tongue. Kept smiling. Cleared plates. Poured tea.
No one asked if I wanted to sit down.
Or if I needed a breather.
Isnt it lovely having a young housewife! Toms mum beamed, all fake warmth. She keeps everything running!
And at that moment something inside me snapped.
That evening, I finally spoke up
When the guests left, I washed up, boxed the leftovers, washed the tablecloth.
Then I slumped onto the edge of the sofa with an empty mug.
It was getting dark outside.
Daisy was curled up asleep.
Tom sat next to me, glued to his phone.
Listen I said, softly but with steel I cant do this anymore.
He looked up, surprised.
Were living like strangers. I just look after everyone. And you dont you see it?
He didnt answer.
This isnt a home. Its just me, changing myself to fit in and staying silent. Daisy and I were not here to just make things easier. I cant stick this out for months. Im sick of being invisible, of being convenient.
He nodded slowly.
I get it Im sorry I didnt see it sooner. Well look for a flat. Well rent something, anything As long as its ours.
And thats just what we did started looking that very night.
Our home even if its small
The flat was tiny. The landlord had left old furniture behind. The floorboards creaked something awful.
But the second I stepped over the threshold I felt lighter. Like, finally, my voice was back.
Right then were here Tom sighed, dropping our bags.
His mum didnt say a word. She didnt even try to stop us.
I didnt know if she was offended, or if shed just realised shed gone too far.
A week went by.
We woke up to music in the mornings.
Daisy doodled on the floor.
Tom made a cuppa.
And I just stood there watching them, smiling.
No stress.
No tiptoeing.
No more just hold on.
Thank you, he said one morning, hugging me. For not letting it go unsaid.
I looked him in the eye:
Thank you for hearing me.
Life wasnt perfect.
But this was our home.
With our rules.
Our noise.
Our lives.
And that was real.
So tell me if you were in my shoes, would you have lasted even a bit, or would you have legged it in the first week?
