When my father-in-law moved into our house, I thought we were doing him a favour. But soon, his presence became something I could never have foreseen: something that tested my patience, my marriage and my limits.
When my mother-in-law ended up in hospital unexpectedly, my father-in-law, Frank, seemed totally lost. He had always depended on her for everything: cooking, cleaning, even remembering to take his medication. Without her, he was like a ship without a rudder.
“I don’t know what to do with myself,” she admitted when my husband, Brian, and I visited her a few days after the incident. Her cheerful voice was deep and her shoulders were slumped.
Brian squeezed my hand, giving me a look that said he was about to make an impulsive decision that he would have to fix later. Sure enough, he turned to his father and said, “Why don’t you stay with us for a while? It will be better than being alone.”
Frank’s eyes lit up and, before I could process what had just happened, he was moving into our spare room with an alarming number of suitcases for someone who claimed it was “temporary.”
At first, it was fine. He seemed grateful, even a little shy about imposing himself. But then little things started to change.
“Hi, honey,“ he called to me one afternoon while I was on a Zoom call for work. ‘Can you get me a coffee? I can’t find the capsules.’
“They’re on the counter,” I replied.
“Yes, but you know how to use the machine better,” he said, laughing as if it were going to seem endearing to me.
Then it was, ‘Can you make me a sandwich?’ and ‘Don’t forget my toast in the mornings; I like it golden brown.’ One day, he even gave me a basket of his clothes, saying, ”I’ll need it tomorrow to play golf. Thanks, kiddo.”
Each time, Brian was “too busy” to notice. But my patience? It was running dangerously low. I didn’t know how much longer I could play along.
The breaking point came on a Thursday night, a night I will never forget. My father-in-law decided to organize a poker night at our house, apparently without feeling the need to ask me first.
“Just a couple of friends, nothing important,” he said that morning, smiling as he rummaged in the fridge. ‘We’ll keep it clean. You’ll hardly notice we’re here.’
You’ll hardly notice? By eight o’clock in the evening, the living room had been transformed into a steaming den of laughter, jingling chips and loud chatter. And me? I was in the kitchen, balancing trays of snacks and refilling drinks like an unpaid waitress.
“Hey, we’re out of beer!” one of his friends shouted. ‘Honey,’ Frank called to me, not even bothering to get up, ‘can you get some from the garage?’ I clenched my jaw, my blood was boiling, but I went to get the beer.
When another of his friends tapped his glass and said, “A little more ice,” I almost lost it.
After the game, as Frank was showing his friends to the door, I heard him chuckle and say to Brian, “See? That’s how you treat a woman.”
The words hit me like a slap in the face. I felt my stomach twist as I realized what had happened. It wasn’t just a poker night, but a pattern. I had seen it for years in the way Frank treated my mother-in-law, as if she were only there to serve him. Now he was training my husband to do the same thing.
It started small, almost imperceptibly. “Hey, can you get me something to drink?” Brian would ask, even when I hadn’t gotten up yet. At first, I didn’t think much of it; he had always been good at sharing chores and being considerate. But then those small favors turned into expectations.
One night, while I was folding the laundry, Brian came by with a plate of his dinner. Instead of putting it in the sink, as he always did, he left it on the table. “Can you take care of that?” he asked me, without breaking his stride.
Another time, I was preparing dinner when he came into the kitchen. “Don’t forget that I need you to iron my blue shirt for tomorrow,” he said, planting a kiss on my cheek as if that would soften the demand.
That was it. “No, Brian,” I said, my voice firm. “This has gone too far. You both need to understand: this ends now. I am not your maid, nor yours either.”
The tension in the room was thick, and I could see Brian’s face of astonishment as I left, determined that things would change forever.
The next morning, after a sleepless night of strategizing, I sat down at the dining room table with my laptop and started to write a “rental agreement.” I wasn’t going to charge Frank rent, but I wanted clear and unambiguous rules. If he was going to stay under our roof, things were going to change.
The rules were simple, but non-negotiable:
Contributions to household chores are expected, not optional. You live here; you contribute.
I prepare a daily meal for everyone. If anyone wants something else, they can cook it themselves.
If you are physically capable of doing something, you do it yourself; this includes getting drinks, doing the laundry and cleaning up after meals.
Everyone cleans up after themselves. Dishes go in the dishwasher, not the sink. Clean clothes will be folded and put away by the person who washed them.
If you invite someone over, you are responsible for hosting them, including food, drink and clean-up.
No sexist comments or behavior: this house operates on the basis of mutual respect, period.
I printed it out, stapled the pages together and waited for Frank to enter the kitchen. He was startled to see me sitting there, sipping my coffee with a printed copy of the rules in front of me.
“Good morning,“ he said cautiously, noticing the change in my attitude.
“Good morning,” I replied, pushing the document towards him. “We need to talk.”
“What is this?“ he asked, frowning as he leafed through the first page.
“It’s a rental agreement to stay in this house,” I said evenly. “These are the rules from now on.”
Frank blinked and his face flushed. ”Rules? What is this, the army? I’m your guest.”
“No,” I said sharply. ”You’re not a guest anymore. You’ve been here for weeks. You’re family, which means you don’t have the right to sit back and let others serve you. That’s how it’s going to work if you stay here.”
Brian walked in midway through the exchange, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on?” he asked, looking between us.
“Your wife wants to turn this house into a dictatorship,” said Frank, leaving the paper on the table.
Brian grabbed the agreement and flipped through it. ‘Isn’t this a bit… over the top?’ he said, hesitating.
“No, Brian,” I said, looking him in the eye. ”What’s over the top is your father treating me like I’m his maid. And lately you’ve started to do the same thing. That ends today.”
The room went silent. Frank looked like he was about to explode, and Brian looked torn. But I stood my ground, unwavering.
“You can follow the rules,” I said, standing up, ”or find another place to stay.”
Frank opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again when he realized I was serious. For the first time in weeks, I felt in control, and I wasn’t about to lose it.
When my mother-in-law, Sarah, finally returned home from the hospital, I felt both nervous and relieved. Nervous because I had no idea how she would react to what I had done, and relieved because, frankly, Frank had been a disaster.
As she settled down on the sofa, sipping the tea I had made for her, I slid the “rental agreement” across the table. “Sarah,“ I began, choosing my words carefully, ‘I need you to look at this. It’s something I worked on while Frank was here.”
She frowned as she read, and at first she pursed her lips. When she got to line 5, she looked at me with a knowing smile. ’I like this one,” she said. “Mutual respect. A new concept for him.”
I exhaled, grateful that she didn’t seem offended. “I know you care about him very much,” I said, sitting down next to her. “But Sarah, he’s been depending on you for too long. It’s not fair to you. And while he was here… well, let’s just say I realized how much you’ve been carrying all these years.”
Her eyes softened and, for a moment, I saw a flash of fatigue. “You’re right,” he said softly. ‘It’s been like this since the day we got married. I just… thought it was my job.”
“No,’ I said firmly, taking his hand. ‘It’s time for you to do something to change the situation. Not just for your sake, but for his.”
Sarah laughed, shaking her head. ’I wish I’d done this years ago.”
When Frank entered the room, Sarah waved the paper in the air. “You have work to do, sir,” she said, her voice playful but firm.
He groaned, muttering something about a conspiracy, but Sarah stood her ground.
When they entered the kitchen together, I couldn’t help but smile. For the first time, I felt that Sarah wasn’t carrying the whole load alone.
“Hey,” said Brian, approaching from behind. ‘Do you really think she’s going to keep it?”
I turned and saw how Sarah guided Frank to the sink, where she gave him a dishcloth. For the first time, he didn’t argue and started drying himself.
I smiled, my voice firm. ’She has no choice. Because this time, we’re all playing by the rules.”