Shared Kitchen and the Lazy Sister-in-Law
Anthony and I live in his house—well, not entirely his. His younger brother Paul and his wife Emily share it with us. We’ve got one kitchen between us, split the grocery bills, and take turns cooking. Sounds like the perfect arrangement, doesn’t it? Except Emily, our dear sister-in-law, seems to think housework is beneath her. She won’t wash a spoon or peel a potato, and I’m this close to handing her a broom and saying, “Welcome to the real world!” But for now, I’m keeping my cool, though my patience is wearing thinner than butter in a hot pan.
The house was left to Anthony and Paul by their parents, and when we got married, we decided living together made sense—cheaper, plus the place is big enough. I didn’t mind at first: Paul’s a quiet bloke, works at a garage, hardly ever home. But Emily… oh, she’s another story. When she and Paul first married, I thought she was just shy, unwilling to intrude on shared chores. Six months later, I realised shyness had nothing to do with it. Emily’s a champion 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: we chip in for groceries and take turns cooking. Anthony and I handle half the week, Paul occasionally grills meat or makes his famous sandwiches, and Emily? Well, her turn means ordering takeaway or plonking yoghurt on the table with a note saying, “Dinner’s served.” Fine if she hated cooking, but she won’t even wash her own dishes! I once counted—half the pile I scrub in a week is her coffee mugs with unfinished lattes. When I ask her to clean up, she stares at me like I’ve got two heads and says, “Oh, Charlotte, I forgot—I’ll do it tomorrow.” Tomorrow? That tomorrow never comes!
I’ve tried talking to Anthony. “Tony,” I said, “your sister-in-law treats us like staff. Maybe Paul could have a word?” He just laughed. “Char, don’t make a fuss. Em’s just not used to chores. Grew up in the city—her mum did everything.” City girl? So I’m some farmhand? I grew up in town too, but that doesn’t stop me peeling spuds or mopping floors. When I hinted to Paul, he shrugged. “Em’s Em. If she doesn’t want to cook, don’t force her.” Don’t force her? Who’s going to feed this lot if I suddenly “don’t want to” as well?
The other day was the last straw. I made a proper lamb roast, just how Anthony likes it. Two hours at the stove, laid the table, called everyone down. Emily strolls in, piles her plate high, and says, “Char, why’s the meat dry? Should’ve used more oil.” I nearly dropped my fork. Dry? That’s all I get after slaving over the stove? Not even a thank you—she ate, left her plate, and vanished. I snapped, “Emily, if it’s not good enough, cook it yourself.” She just scoffed. “Oh, but you’re so much better at it, Char.” Better? So now I’m the designated chef?
I’ve been weighing options. First: go on strike. No cooking, no cleaning, no shopping. Let’s see how Emily likes an empty fridge. But I know Anthony and Paul would moan, and I don’t want rows over her. Second: lay it out straight. “Emily, this isn’t a hotel—pull your weight or eat out.” But she’d either play dumb or whinge to Paul, who’d blame me. Third: just accept it. Not happening. I won’t be a maid in my own home.
Sometimes I dream of renting a flat with Anthony. But this house is his inheritance, he loves it, and I’ve grown fond of the garden and the cosy nooks. I won’t let Emily chase us out. I even tried cunning—suggested dividing the kitchen into “responsibility zones.” Everyone handles their own mess. Emily nodded, then drank coffee from my mug. Impossible woman.
My mate suggested, “Char, give her a fixed task. Tell her she cooks every Wednesday, no excuses.” I tried. But Emily just said, “Oh, Charlotte, I’m busy Wednesdays. You do it?” Busy? Scrolling Instagram? I’m tempted to pin a rota up: “Emily—your day, or you starve.” Maybe that’ll sink in.
For now, I bite my tongue. I cook, I clean, but every dirty cup of hers makes me imagine awarding her a medal for “world-class idleness.” Anthony says he’ll talk to Paul, but I doubt it’ll help. Emily’s like a cat—walks her own path but eats from my bowl. Still, I’ll find a way to put my foot down. This house is ours, and I won’t let one lazy in-law turn it into her personal comfort zone. Until then, I’ll just dream of the day she washes a single plate. Dreams come true, don’t they?
