I am a daughterinlaw, ordinary, working, with no crown on my head. My husband and I live in our own flat in Manchester, the kind were still paying off mortgage, council tax, utility bills, and the grind from sunrise to midnight.
My motherinlaw, Margaret, lives out in a cottage in the Cotswolds, as does her sisterinlaw, Helen. Everything would be fine if they hadnt decided that our flat was a weekend resort. At first it sounded charming:
Well pop round on Saturday, Margaret said.
Just for a little while, I answered.
Were family, after all.
A little while in their language meant a nightlong stay; pop round came with battered suitcases, empty casserole dishes and eyes expecting a feast.
Every Sunday the same loop: after work I dash to the shops, cook, tidy, set the table, smile, and then half the night Im scrubbing dishes and dusting. Margaret sits at the kitchen table offering commentary:
Whys there no sweetcorn in the salad?
I like my stew a bit richer, I say.
We dont do that back in the village, she declares.
Helen adds, Im knackered from the road. No pudding? she asks. Not once do they say Thank you or Can I help?
One evening I could take it no more and told Tom:
Im not a housemaid, and Im fed up serving your family every weekend.
He shrugged, Maybe we should do something about it.
Then a spark flickered in my mind.
The next day Margaret rang. Were coming Saturday.
Oh, we have weekend plans, I said calmly.
What plans? she pressed.
Just our own, I replied.
Do you know what happened? We actually left the flat and drove to Margarets cottage. Saturday morning we stood on her front garden gate. Margaret opened the door and froze, as if caught in a picture.
What on earth is this? she gasped.
Were visiting, just for a short while, I said.
You should have warned me! I havent cooked a thing! Do you know how much it costs to host guests? she whined.
I looked at her, deadpan: See, thats my life every weekend.
So youve decided to teach me a lesson? How cheeky! she shouted, her voice booming enough to draw the neighbours eyes. We turned and drove back home.
And that was the turning point. Since then there have been no unannounced visits, no well pop round, and no weekends spent in my kitchen. Sometimes, to be heard, you have to let people stand in your shoes or, in a dream, stand at their doorstep and watch the world pause.
Did I do the right thing? What would you have done in my place?
