I’m Not Some Maid for the In-Laws
Wash the floors in my in-laws’ house? Not a chance, no thank you! At thirty-eight, I, Emily, decided it was finally time to live for myself, not to sprint around their sprawling mansion with a mop in hand. My in-laws, Reginald and Margaret, are ninety-two and eighty-three, respectively, and of course, they’re no longer spry enough to manage the housework. My husband, William, their only son, was born when they were already in their forties, and now everyone looks to me as the designated saviour. But I never signed up to be their housemaid! People gossip, the in-laws drop hints, but I’ve made up my mind: enough is enough. My time is my own, full stop.
William and I have been married ten years, and all this time I’ve tried to be the perfect daughter-in-law. The in-laws aren’t bad people, just set in their ways. Reginald, despite his age, is still sharp—he walks with a cane, reads the papers, and loves spinning tales about his youth. Margaret is frailer, mostly confined to her armchair, knitting or watching telly. Their home is a grand, creaky old thing with wooden floors and far too many rooms they stubbornly refuse to rent or sell. “This is our nest,” they say. And I wouldn’t mind, if their “nest” hadn’t become my never-ending chore.
When we first married, I’d visit often—helping with cleaning, cooking, driving them to doctor’s appointments. It didn’t feel like a burden then; I assumed it was temporary, while they still had some independence. But the years rolled on, and their expectations only grew. Now, every time we visit, Margaret gives the floors a mournful glance and sighs, “Oh, Emily love, it’s ever so dusty in here.” Reginald chimes in, “You’re such a capable girl, you’ll sort it.” Capable? I work as a marketing manager, have two children, a mortgage, and a mountain of responsibilities. When exactly am I meant to be their charwoman?
The other day, things came to a head. We visited for the weekend, and the moment I stepped inside, Margaret thrust a bucket and cloth into my hands. “Emily, do the floors, would you? My knees won’t let me anymore.” I was stunned. Was this some sort of unpaid internship? I politely refused. “Margaret, I’m sorry, but my back’s been playing up, and I’ve got errands to run.” She pursed her lips, and Reginald muttered, “Young people today—no work ethic.” Work ethic? I fetch the kids from school, check their homework, scarf down meals between meetings, and they’re lecturing me on laziness?
I told William I was done being their floor scrubber. As usual, he played diplomat. “Em, they’re elderly, it’s hard for them. Just help out this once, eh?” This once? It’s *every* time! I reminded him his parents have a pension—they could hire help. But William just sighed. “You know how they are about strangers in the house.” Strangers? So *I’m* not a stranger, just their unpaid labour? I laid down the law: either we hire someone, or the floors stay filthy. William promised to talk to them, but I know him—he’ll cave to their guilt.
The neighbours, of course, have taken sides. In our little village, gossip travels faster than the wind. Last week, old Mrs. Thompson cornered me at the shops. “Emily, dear, your poor in-laws—can’t you spare an hour to help?” I nearly snapped back, “And who’s helping *me* with *my* family?” Why does everyone act like I owe them my every free moment? I respect Reginald and Margaret, but I’m not their skivvy. I have my own life, my own dreams—yoga classes, holidays with the kids, an unread book gathering dust.
I offered a compromise: we’d handle groceries, doctor’s visits, but the cleaning was off the table. Margaret grimaced. “Emily, you’d really bring outsiders into our home?” Reginald added, “We thought of you as family.” Family doesn’t mean free labour! I bit my tongue, but inside, I was seething. Why does no one care how *I* feel? I’ve spent years pleasing everyone—now I want something for myself. Is that so wrong?
My best mate, Sarah, put it plainly: “Em, you’re right. Set boundaries, or they’ll walk all over you.” So I have. Their mop stays untouched. If they want spotless floors, they can ask William or hire someone. Funny how *he* never volunteers, yet the burden’s always mine. Some days, I dream of moving to Cornwall, just to escape the weight of their expectations. For now, though, I’m learning to say “no.” And you know what? It feels like freedom.
Let the neighbours whisper. Let the in-laws grumble. I won’t be the daughter-in-law who burns herself out for their approval. Reginald and Margaret lived their lives; now it’s my turn. And if that means refusing to scrub their floors, so be it. William can decide whose side he’s on—ours, or theirs.
