**Diary Entry**
My mother-in-law treats me like a maid: She insists I’m lucky to even have a house to clean.
She behaves like a spoiled child, though she’s nearly 60. Age hasn’t humbled her—she acts with such thoughtlessness it makes my blood boil. My husband, James, is her only son, her golden child. He adores her, defends her, and she, in turn, revels in it. I’m the mother of his two children, with plans for a third, but in this house—where we all live—I feel less like a wife and more like hired help.
The five of us share a large home on the outskirts of Manchester. Space isn’t the issue; upkeep is. Dust settles in every room, dishes pile up in the sink, and the bathroom never stays clean—all of it falls on me because I’m on maternity leave. James comes home late, has supper, then spends time with the kids before bed. I’m glad for that—a father should be present. But Margaret, my mother-in-law, lives in her own world. She works, but it’s more a pastime than a necessity. A retired accountant, she now does part-time bookkeeping at a small firm. Yet she’s never in a hurry to return home. She lingers at the office, gossiping over lunches in the canteen, stretching her breaks as long as possible.
When she finally comes back, she locks herself in her room, blaring the telly while scrolling through Facebook. She couldn’t care less about James, the grandkids, or—least of all—me. My youngest, Tommy, who’s only four, will bring me a clean towel if I ask. But Margaret? She’s an enigma, one I’m tired of.
I could tolerate her keeping to herself—but she doesn’t. Family meals never happen; James is working, the kids are out with friends, and we all eat whenever. One rule stands: clear your plate and wipe the table. I don’t mind washing up. But Margaret ignores it, leaving crumbs and dirty dishes behind before vanishing to do whatever she pleases. It’s always the same. She’s set in her ways, and I’ve given up hoping she’ll change. I clean the entire house—except her room. I dread to imagine the mess in there.
She doesn’t even know how to turn on the vacuum. Once in a blue moon, she’ll grab a broom and half-heartedly sweep, but it feels like theatre. At least she washes her own clothes—small mercies. I’ve complained to James, but he just shrugs. “Mum’s been like this since Dad died. Closed off.” Closed off? She’s the life of the party at work! Does she really despise me that much? Worse still, she’s indifferent to the grandchildren.
I thought grandmas spoiled their grandkids—sweets, games, attention. Margaret is the exception. She doesn’t play with them, doesn’t buy them a thing, barely even looks their way. I tried talking to her, but it was a farce. She stared at me like I was some petulant schoolgirl and said, “You live under my roof.” In her mind, because James brought me here, my job is to bear children and serve. She claims—dead serious—that wives *must* keep house, and I should be “grateful” to have floors to mop. She scolds me for not working, bragging about how she still “earns her keep” in retirement.
She chips in for groceries, but I doubt it’s much—her wages are slim. James handles the finances, but I don’t bother explaining my days to her: cooking, cleaning, laundry, raising the kids. We could compare burdens, but she won’t listen. The talk went nowhere. She thinks she has the right to order me around because I’m an “outsider.” And spoiling the grandkids? Not her job—that’s for parents.
I’m running out of patience. What do I do? Play along, pretending everything’s fine, acting like I have *three* children—the third being a temperamental pensioner? Or fight? Tell James everything, confront her again, demand change? Maybe I can earn her respect, stop feeling like the help. But what if it ends in a row?
I can’t take much more. It’s exhausting. Is it even worth fighting for my place in this house? I want to believe it is.
