Shared Kitchen and the Lazy Sister-in-Law
Anton and I live in his house—well, not entirely his. His younger brother, Paul, and his wife, Jessica, live here too. We share one kitchen, split the grocery bills, and take turns cooking. Sounds like the perfect arrangement, doesn’t it? Except Jessica, our dear sister-in-law, seems to think housework isn’t her concern. 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 holding back, though my patience is wearing thinner than butter in a hot pan.
The house was left to Anton and Paul by their parents, and when we got married, we decided to live together—it’s cheaper, and the place is big enough. I didn’t mind at first: Paul’s a quiet bloke, works at a garage, and is hardly ever home. But Jessica… oh, she’s another story. When she and Paul first married, I thought she was just shy, didn’t want to intrude. Six months later, I realised shyness had nothing to do with it. Jessica’s a champion at dodging any responsibility. She’ll spend hours in her room, scrolling through her phone or painting her nails while I’m downstairs cooking dinner for four.
Our system’s simple: we split the groceries and take turns cooking. Anton and I handle half the week, Paul occasionally grills meat or makes his signature sandwiches, and Jessica? Well, her turn usually means ordering takeaway or plonking a pot of yoghurt on the table with a note saying, “Dinner’s served.” And it’s not just the cooking—she won’t even wash her own dishes! I once counted: in a week, I scrub a mountain of plates, half of which are her half-finished lattes. And when I ask her to clean up, she looks at me like I’ve got two heads and says, “Oh, Emily, I forgot—I’ll do it tomorrow.” Tomorrow? That tomorrow never comes!
I’ve tried talking to Anton. “Tony,” I say, “your sister-in-law treats us like hired help. Maybe Paul could have a word?” Anton just laughs. “Emily, don’t make a fuss. Jess just isn’t used to housework—she’s a city girl, her mum did everything.” A city girl? And what, I grew up on a farm? I’m from the city too, but that doesn’t stop me peeling potatoes or mopping floors. When I hinted to Paul, he shrugged. “Jess is who she is. If she doesn’t want to cook, don’t force her.” Don’t force her? Then who’s going to feed this lot if I start “not wanting to” as well?
The other day was the last straw. I spent two hours making a proper lamb roast, just how Anton likes it. Laid the table, called everyone down. Jessica strolls in, piles her plate high, and says, “Emily, why’s the meat dry? You should’ve used more butter.” I nearly dropped my fork. Dry? I stood at the stove for two hours just to hear my cooking wasn’t good enough? And she didn’t even say thanks—just ate and left her plate on the table. I snapped. “Jessica, if you don’t like it, cook yourself.” She just scoffed. “Oh, I’m no good at it, Emily—you’re much better.” Better? It’s official, then—I’m the designated house chef?
I’ve been weighing my options. First: go on strike. Stop cooking, cleaning, shopping. Let’s see how Jessica manages when the fridge holds nothing but her yoghurt. But I know Anton and Paul will moan, and I don’t want to row with my husband over her. Second: confront her. Say, “Jess, this isn’t a hotel—either pitch in or eat out.” But she’ll probably play dumb or cry to Paul, and I’ll end up the villain. Third: suck it up. Not my style. I won’t be a maid in my own home.
Sometimes I dream of renting a place with Anton and leaving. But this house is his family’s, he loves it, and I’ve grown fond of it too—the garden, the veranda, the cosiness. I won’t let Jessica drive us out. I even tried being clever: suggested dividing the kitchen into “responsibility zones.” Each person handles their own dishes and food. Jessica nodded… and kept drinking coffee from my mug. She’s like a brick wall.
My mate suggested, “Emily, give her a fixed chore. Tell her she cooks every Wednesday, full stop.” I tried. Assigned her a day, and she said, “Oh, Emily, I’m busy Wednesdays—why don’t you do it?” Busy? Scrolling Instagram? I’m tempted to pin a rota to the fridge: “Jessica’s day—takeaway or starve.” Maybe that’ll shake her up.
For now, I’m biting my tongue. Cooking, cleaning, but every time I see her dirty mug, I imagine handing her a trophy for “expert-level laziness.” Anton says he’ll talk to Paul, but I doubt it’ll help. Jessica’s like a cat that walks by itself—only it eats from my bowl. But I’ll find a way to put her in her place. This house is ours, and I won’t let one lazy sister-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?
