And youve no reason to sit at the table. Youre here to serve us! declared my mother-in-law.
I stood by the stove in our morning kitchen, silent, still dressed in my creased pyjamas and with my hair carelessly tied back. The air was thick with the smell of toast and strong tea.
On the stool by the table sat my seven-year-old daughter, her nose buried in a colouring book, carefully drawing bright swirls with her felt-tips.
Are you making those diet toasts again? came the voice from behind me.
I jumped.
My mother-in-law stood in the doorway a woman whose expression rarely softened, her voice always ready with a command. She wore a dressing gown; her hair pulled tightly back, her lips pressed thin.
By the way, I had whatever I fancied for lunch yesterday! she pressed on, flapping a tea towel at the tables edge. No soup, no proper meal. Can you actually make eggs properly? Not with these fad recipes of yours!
I switched off the stove and opened the fridge.
A knot of anger twisted in my chest, but I swallowed it. Not in front of my child. And not here, in a space where every shelf and cushion seemed to whisper, Youre only here for now.
Ill do it in a minute, I said, forcing calm, turning away so she wouldnt see my voice trembling.
My daughter stayed lost in her drawing, but I could see her watching her grandmother from the corner of her eye quiet, wary.
*Living with Mother*
When my wife suggested we move in with her mum, it sounded reasonable.
Lets stay with her just for a bit. Two months at most. Its close to work, and the mortgage will be approved soon. And shes fine with it.
I hesitated. Not because I disliked my mother-in-law. No, we were always polite. But I knew the truth:
Two grown women in one small kitchen thats a minefield.
And my mother-in-law was the type who needed order, control, and the last word on morality.
But we had little choice.
Wed sold our old flat quickly, and the new place wasnt ready. So the three of us moved into my mother-in-laws two-bedroom flat.
*Just for now.*
Order became routine
The initial days were calm enough. My mother-in-law was almost courteous, even brought out an extra chair for my daughter, offering us a slice of cake.
But by day three, her rules appeared.
Theres order in my house she announced at breakfast. Up by eight. Shoes in the rack. Food purchases to be agreed. And keep the telly down Im sensitive to noise.
My wife waved it off, with a smile:
Mum, were only here for a bit. Well cope.
I nodded, silent.
But well cope started to sound like a sentence.
I began to disappear
One week, then another.
Her routine grew harsher.
She cleared my daughters drawings from the table:
Theyre in the way.
She took off my checked tablecloth:
Not practical.
My cereal vanished from the shelf:
Its been there ages, must be off.
She moved my shampoos:
Dont clutter up my bathroom.
I didnt feel like a guest, more like someone without voice or a right to an opinion.
My food was wrong.
My habits unnecessary.
My child too noisy.
My wife would just repeat:
Just cope. Its mums flat. Shes always been like this.
Every day, I lost a bit more of myself.
The man who was once relaxed, certain now just endlessly compromising, endlessly patient.
Living life by someone elses rules
Every morning I got up at six to be first in the bathroom, make porridge, get my daughter ready just to avoid my mother-in-laws wrath.
In the evening, I cooked two dinners.
One for us.
And one proper for her.
No onions.
Then with onions.
Then only in her pan.
Then only with her utensils.
I dont ask much, shed say with a sigh. Just do things properly. How it ought to be done.
The day humiliation went public
One morning, barely had I washed my face and flicked on the kettle, when my mother-in-law swept into the kitchen as though it were hers alone.
My friends are coming around at two. Youll be here so set the table. Some pickles, salad, something for tea just the usual.
Just the usual with her meant a spread fit for a bank holiday.
I I didnt know. Ingredients
Youll buy them. Ive made you a list. Its simple.
I got dressed and trudged off to the shop.
Bought everything:
Chicken, potatoes, dill, apples for pie, biscuits
Came back and started cooking, non-stop.
By two oclock it was ready:
Table laid out, chicken roasted, salad crisp, pie golden-brown.
Her three friends arrived, all retired, all impeccably coiffed, scents lingering from a different era.
Within moments, I realised I wasnt company.
I was the waiter.
Come, come sit here with us my mother-in-law smiled, false warmth in her voice. So you can serve us.
Serve you? I repeated.
Whats the bother? Were older. Its not hard for you.
And there I was again:
With trays, spoons, bread.
A cup of tea, please.
The sugar, dear.
We need more salad.
The chickens a bit dry grumbled one.
The pies a tad overdone another piped up.
I clenched my jaw. Forced a smile. Cleared plates. Poured tea.
No one asked if I wanted to sit.
Or take a breath.
Its lovely having a young man about the house! my mother-in-law declared, her tone syrupy. Everything depends on him!
And then something inside me broke.
That night I spoke up
When the guests had left, I washed all the dishes, tidied up, did the laundry.
Then I sat at the end of the sofa with an empty cup.
Outside was already dark.
My daughter slept in a tight ball.
My wife sat next to me, glued to her phone.
Listen I said quietly, firmly. I cant do this anymore.
She looked up, surprised.
Were living like strangers. Im just someone who serves everyone. And you do you even see it?
She was silent.
This isnt home. Its a life where all I do is adjust and bite my tongue. Im here with our daughter. I cant keep this up for months more. Im tired of being invisible and convenient.
She nodded slowly.
I get it Im sorry I didnt see it before. Well look for a place to rent. Anything as long as its ours.
And we started searching that very evening.
Our home even if its small
The flat was tiny. The landlord had left old chairs and a creaky lino floor.
But stepping through the door I felt something lift. My voice was my own again.
Well here we are my wife breathed out as she put down the bags.
My mother-in-law said nothing. Not even an attempt to stop us.
I couldnt tell if she was offended or saw shed gone too far.
One week passed.
Mornings began with music.
My daughter drew on the floor.
My wife made tea.
And I watched it all, smiling.
No stress.
No rush.
No more, Just cope.
Thank you my wife said one morning, hugging me. For not keeping quiet.
I met her eyes:
Thank you for listening.
Life wasnt perfect now.
But this was our home.
With our rules.
Our noise.
Our life.
And it was real.
Ive learned this much: a home isnt about the space or the furniture, but about feeling heard, valued, and yourself. And Id never trade that for being just convenient again.
