My Mother-in-Law Called Me a Bad Housekeeper, So I Stopped Serving Them

Mrs. Eleanor Whitaker hovered over the kitchen like a statue of soot, her amber brooch catching the flickering light. Milly, dear, whos cutting the cucumber so brutally? Those arent cubes, theyre little stones! How can anyone swallow that? Men, you know, dont have steeljawed chewing muscles; they need gentleness, care, she chided, while Milly hurriedly diced the salad.

Milly gripped the knife handle until her knuckles turned white. The guests would arrive in half an hour, yet the motherinlaw, who had turned up two hours early to help, spent the time shuffling spice jars and commenting on every movement of her daughterinlaw.

Mrs. Whitaker, this is the salad. Everything gets mixed. David loves his vegetables to feel, not dissolve into mush, Milly replied calmly, keeping her voice low.

Ah, youll tell me about David! I raised him, fed him for thirty years. Hes always wanted everything neat, tidy, perfectly aligned. Hes a delicate chap, thats my doing. And his shirt was wrinkled yesterday I saw it when he dropped by. Shame, Milly. A wife should keep her husband looking like he walked out of a tailors shop, Eleanor lectured, her hands clasped over her chest where the brooch sparkled.

Milly inhaled deeply and set the knife aside. I work until seven, Mrs. Whitaker. David comes home at six. He has his own hands and the iron is always within reach, she said, trying not to raise her tone.

The motherinlaw pressed her hands to her heart, the amber pin glinting. Hands! A mans task is to provide. Cleanliness, comfort, a cosy home thats the womans holy duty. If you cant manage, perhaps you should quit your job or rise earlier. I used to get up at five to fry fresh pancakes before my shift. And you? Rely on premade stuff?

I cook every day, Milly snapped. Now, excuse me, I need to pull the roast from the oven.

The lunch passed under a charged atmosphere. David sat, head bowed over his plate, pretending not to notice the electric tension. He favoured the ostrich tactic: bury his head in the soup and hope the storm would pass.

Mrs. Whitaker tasted the roastmarinated for a day in a secret sauceand winced. Its edible, though the meat is a bit tough. Overcooked, love. And youve undersalted it. David, need more salt?

Its fine, mum, tasty enough, David muttered through a mouthful.

Its tasty for him, I suppose. He never eats anything sweeter than a carrot. And the floors? Look at that laminatethose corners are dull. Your robot vacuum hums, but it does nothing. A rag, your hands, on your kneesthats real cleanliness. You treat the house like a cold office, without a soul. Youre a poor housekeeper, Milly, sorry for the bluntness. Who else will tell you the truth, if not your own mother?

Milly placed her fork down, feeling something snap inside her. Five years of marriage, five years of trying to be perfectbalancing a senior accountants salary, a mortgage, evenings spent at the stove, scrubbing, baking, starching, all for a sliver of approval. And the verdict: poor housekeeper.

She glanced at David, who kept chewing, eyes fixed on his plate, shielding her. He was used to it: motherinlaws criticism, Millys extra effort, and his passive consumption of the result.

So, Im a poor housekeeper? Milly asked quietly.

Dont take it to heart, love, Eleanor waved a hand, shovelling another bite of the overcooked meat onto her plate. Its a fact. There are homey women, and there are modern careerwomen. Youve got dust on the corniceI saw it last week. It stings the eyes.

Alright, Milly nodded, a strange calm spreading across her face. Ive heard you, Mrs. Whitaker. Thank you for the honesty.

That night, after the motherinlaw finally left, lugging a container of cake with a warningIll take it so you dont get sick when it mouldsDavid collapsed on the sofa in front of the telly.

Phew, what a day, he yawned. Milly, could you bring me a tea? Theres still a scone left.

Milly stood by the window, watching the city lights blink like distant fireflies.

No, David.

What, no scone? Mum ate it all?

No tea. In fact, I wont bring it.

David lifted an eyebrow, surprised. Youre mad at your mum? Shes old, grumbling as usual. Dont mind her.

Im not mad. Ive drawn a line. Your mother called me a poor housekeepersaid I do everything without heart, that I overdry the meat, that I miss the dust. I thought, why should I torture you and myself with my incompetence? If I cant run a household properly, Ill stop trying altogether, to avoid further shame.

David chuckled, assuming she was joking. Fine, rant over. Come here, Ill hug you.

Milly didnt move. She grabbed a book and slipped into the bedroom, closing the door firmly.

Monday morning broke with an unexpected silence. Normally the flat awoke to the aroma of fresh coffee and the sizzle of bacon, a neatly ironed shirt hanging on the chair, socks stacked like tiny soldiers. Today the kitchen was empty and dark, the stove cold as a former lovers heart.

Milly? David called, peeking into the bedroom. Wheres breakfast?

In the fridge: eggs, ham. The breads in the tin, she replied calmly, applying mascara.

But you always made breakfast. Im late!

Im late too. And since Im a bad housekeeper, I might spoil the foodshells in the omelette, coffee burnt. Better you do it yourself. A mans job is to provide, after all.

David cursed under his breath and shuffled to the kitchen. The coffee spilled over the hob, the eggs stuck to the pan, the toast was burnt on one side, soft on the other. He swallowed a dry ham sandwich, slipped into yesterdays shirtstill a bit dampand left for work, angry and hungry.

Evening returned the same script. David came home, expecting a dinner, and found Milly on the sofa, a fabric mask covering her face, leafing through a magazine.

Whats for dinner? he asked, tripping over his own sneakers left on the floor.

I ordered salmon poke, already eaten, Millys voice came muffled through the mask. I didnt think to order for youmaybe you wont like it. There are frozen dumplings in the freezer, supermarket brand.

Dumplings? Ive worked all day! I want a proper homecooked meal! Borscht!

Borscht is complicated. With my lack of talent Id ruin it. Your mother said I cook without soul. Dumplings are easywater, salt, ten minutes, done.

David felt the sting of her icy stare. He swallowed his pride, boiled the dumplings, then washed the pot because Milly declared, Im terrible at dishes, I leave streaks. You wash them properly yourself.

A week slipped by. Dust that Milly once swept away every two days now swirled in the sunlight. The sink piled up with dishesDavid washed only what he needed at the moment, Milly used a single plate and cup and promptly cleaned them, stashing them in a personal cabinet.

The laundry basket grew into a mountain of his socks, tees, and jeans. Milly had no troubleshe dropped her laundry off at the launderette on her way to work, or washed her own bits by hand.

David stalked the flat, crumpled, irritable, slowly losing weight on a diet of sandwiches and instant noodles.

On Saturday morning a knock sounded. It was Mrs. Whitaker, dropping in unannounced for her weekly inspection.

Open up, love! I brought you pancakes, lest you starve on dry toast, she chirped, stepping into the hallway.

Her eyes fell on a heap of shoes by the door, then on a layer of dust coating the TV, where someone had scrawled Wash me with a fingertip. Empty mugs with dried tea bags and a pizza box littered the coffee table.

My word! What happened here? Have you fallen ill? It looks like a barn! she gasped, clutching her chest.

Milly emerged from the bedroom in a silk dressing gown, hair brushed, a book in hand. Good morning, Mrs. Whitaker. Its just a flat, not a barn. No professional cleaner here.

A professional cleaner? This is an unsanitary nightmare! David, son, how do you live like this?

David shuffled out of the kitchen, a stale biscuit in his hand, his shirt crumpled, a spot on his trousers.

Mom, thats how we live he muttered.

Milly! Grab a cloth this instant! Its a disgrace! Ill start a thorough cleaning and youll help. How could you let your husband wallow in filth? Eleanor shouted, brandishing a cleaning rag.

Milly settled back into an armchair, crossed her legs, and opened her book. No, Mrs. Whitaker. I wont pick up a rag. You told me last Sunday Im a poor housekeeper, that I wash wrong, that I have no talent. I accepted your criticism. Why should I do something Im bad at? Ill focus on what Im good atmy job and my rest.

Youre mocking me? the motherinlaw sputtered, her face turning a shade of crimson. I was trying to teach you!

The lessons over. Ive dropped out for lack of progress, Milly replied.

David! Say something! the old woman shrieked.

David looked between his wife, his mother, and the towering pile of dirty dishes. Mom, you really pushed her. She did the cooking, the cleaning, and you kept telling her not right and not this way. Thats why shes angry.

Im not angry, Milly said, Ive simply optimized my workflow. If my effort is judged as zero or negative, its logical to stop spending energy on it.

Mrs. Whitakers face flushed. So youre optimizing? Fine then, Ill do it all myself! If the daughterinlaw cant manage, the mother must rescue the son!

She tore off her coat, grabbed a rag, and launched into a threehour cleaning frenzy. She scrubbed, vacuumed, and muttered commentary about every smudge: Shame! Grease here! Spiderwebs there! Poor boy!

Meanwhile Milly sipped coffee made just for herself, read her book, and offered no assistance. David tried to help, only to receive sharp rebukes: Dont get in my way! Go eat, Ive brought the cutlets!

By evening the flat gleamed. Mrs. Whitaker, exhausted, collapsed on the sofa, her face flushed. Water, she rasped.

Milly handed her a glass of water and a tablet. Thank you, Mrs. Whitaker. You truly are a cleaning master. I could never have done it alone. Its a good thing a professional stepped in.

Mrs. Whitaker stared at her with lingering resentment, but her strength to argue had faded.

I wont let this go, she whispered. David, you must divorce her. She doesnt love you. Shes lazy and selfish.

David stood by the window, his stomach full of his mothers cutlets, the flat spotless, yet a wave of nausea rose. He saw the humiliation of the scene, understood that his mother would soon leave and he would be left with Milly. If she kept her strike, the next week would be another bout of hell. And his mother, advancing in years, could not keep coming back to mop floors forever.

Mom, he said softly, lets get you home. Ill call a cab.

Youre kicking me out? she cried, tears spilling from her eyes.

No, just think youre tired. You need a rest.

When the door shut behind Mrs. Whitaker, a sterile silence settled over the freshly cleaned flat.

David moved to the kitchen, where Milly was preparing a salad. Milly, he began hesitantly.

Yes?

Maybe its time to stop. Ive learned the lesson. Mother too perhaps.

What lesson did you learn, David? Milly turned, a knife glinting in her hand. That you can live a week in a sty, then have an old woman sweep it clean while you watch TV? Thats a bad lesson.

No. I realized Im miserable without you. Im used to neatness and tasty meals, but I never valued them. I thought theyd just appear.

It doesnt appear by itself. Its hours of my life I steal from sleep, hobbies, rest. When I hear youre useless, I stop doing anything.

Ill talk to my mother, David said firmly. Ill tell her to stop criticizing your cooking or cleaning. Otherwise well stop inviting her.

Words are easy, David. I need actions.

Ill help. Really. Lets split chores. Ill vacuum, take out the rubbish, and wash dishes in the evenings.

Milly eyed him skeptically. Dishes every evening?

Yes. And Ill make breakfast on weekends. Ill learn to fry eggs the way you like.

She considered his proposal, then nodded. Alright. One month trial. If you break the agreement, Ill go on strike again. And believe me, your mother wont return for a second roundher back cant handle it.

Deal. And dinner tonight?

Tonight we eat Mums leftover cutlets. Tomorrow well see how you fare.

The following week opened new eyes for David. The robot vacuum, though sleek, needed its brush cleaned; the dishes multiplied like gremlins; socks required more than a tossed pilethey needed a proper bin.

One Wednesday evening Mrs. Whitaker called. How are you two managing? Still buried in grime? Should I come over Saturday and make borscht?

David, scrubbing a stubborn pan, pressed the phone to his ear. No, Mum, weve got it. The borschts already on the tableMilly made it, and its delicious.

Oh, dear, the best borscht, I know, she replied, a hint of pride hidden in her tone.

Enough, Mum, David said, voice hard. Milly is a great housekeeper now. If you say another nasty thing, well be hurt. I love my wife and I wont stand by while shes insulted.

A heavy silence lingered on the line before the call dropped.

Milly, standing in the doorway, smiled for the first time in ages, warmth spreading through her. She slipped behind David, rested her head on his shoulder, and whispered, Theres still a bit of grease on the pan handle.

I see it, he muttered, reaching for a cloth. Go rest. Youve worked enough.

Mrs. Whitaker didnt call for two weeks. When she finally returned, quieter, she sat down for tea. Milly served roast chicken with potatoes, the skin golden, fragrance drifting through the building.

Mrs. Whitaker cut a bite, chewed, and for a moment seemed ready to launch another critique, but her lips stayed still as she met Davids steady gaze.

Delicious, she managed. Very good chicken.

Thank you, Milly replied, smiling. Ive tried.

And the flat is tidy Mrs. Whitaker glanced around, searching for a flaw, found none. David had already wiped the skirting boards before her arrival, fearing another strike scenario.

We cleaned together, he said proudly. Im now in charge of the dust.

Men with a rag, Mrs. Whitaker began, then stopped. Well, as long as theres peace in the house.

Exactly, Milly said, pouring tea for her motherinlaw. Peace and respect.

The criticism never vanished entirelyold habits die hardbut it became a low mutter, ignored by all. Milly understood a simple truth: to be valued, sometimes you must stop being invisible and show the worth of your unseen labour. And most of all, she never again feared being called a poor housekeeper. Being a happy woman mattered far more.