My Mother-in-Law Accused Me of Being a Bad Housewife, So I Suggested She Manage My Husband’s Home He…

Whats all this, then? Take a look, Emily, just run your finger over the mantelpiece. Thats not dust, thats practically feltI swear, you could plant potatoes up here! The shrill, insistent voice sliced through the evening hush of the flat like a bread knife through a squishy Victoria sponge.

Emily heaved a sigh, closed her laptop with a click, and rose from the table, each movement weighted by fatigue. It was eight oclock; shed only returned from work thirty minutes earlier, her brain still ringing from hours trying to wrangle the quarterly accounts. The last thing she fancied was a lecture about dust, but Mrs. Margaret Davis, her mother-in-law, was a woman one simply couldnt ignore. She stood in the lounge bearing a porcelain fox shed plucked from the shelf, her face turned towards her daughter-in-law with the dignified air of a miffed church warden.

Mrs. Davis, I cleaned on Saturday. We open the windows, you see, the High Roads right outside, and the dust just settles straight back in, Emily attempted, knowing full well her words would vanish like tea down a plughole.

Oh, everyones got their windows open, love, but its only the idle who let filth pile up, retorted Mrs. Davis, pointedly wiping her finger on a tissue shed fished from her handbag with the mysterious foresight of an army quartermaster. Oliver comes home from work tired and hungry, and what does he find? Chaos. A man needs a bit of comfort and order, Emily. And look, therere two mugs left in the sinktwo! I suppose theyre still there from this morning?

We were late, Emily murmured, putting the kettle on out of habit. Oliver had his coffee, he could have rinsed his cup, honestly.

Her mother-in-law shuffled after, house slippers tap-dancing across the laminated floor in a rhythm as aggravating as sleet on a greenhouse.

A man washing up? she exclaimed theatrically, flinging her hands skyward. Thats your job! Have you ever heard the phrase, Every womans home is her castle? Not, her spreadsheets and deadlines. Youre off chasing a career, hours at the office, and meanwhile poor Olivers going about in shirts that havent seen an iron in weeks. I saw him when he called by mine for the empty jarscollar was limp as dishcloth! The neighbours could talk. Oh, no proper wife for Oliver, poor chap has to manage all on his own. How mortifying, Emily.

Without slamming anything, Emily took out the biscuits. Five years marrieda full five years since the musical overture began. Once, she tried to comply: starching shirts, scrubbing, conjuring up a three-course meal nightly. But as head accountant, her reserves of time and energy were always overdrawn. Oliver, for his part, never once complained. He wasnt fussed about a bit of dust or Friday-night oven chipsunless you went up with a magnifying glass, youd never spot it. But his mother? Categorical disapproval.

The front door crashed open.

I’m home! came Olivers cheery shout.

My boy! Mrs. Davis morphed instantlybeaming, fussing her hair, hurrying to intercept him in the hall. Only popped in, brought some sausage rolls you like. Dont want Emily overwhelmed with housework now, shes forever up to her eyes at work, poor dear

Oliver trotted into the kitchen, pecked his mother on the cheek, his wife too, and slumped into a chair.

Mum, youre a legendstarving. Em, any supper going?

Emily froze, the kettle in her hand.

I just got in, Ollie. I thought Id quickly whip up some navy pasta. Theres mince thawed out.

Mrs. Davis clutched her chest in consternation.

Pasta? Again? Oliver, are you listening? You want proper food, hearty meals, not another plate of stodge. Your fatherGod rest himnever faced such an empty pot. I made him fresh soup every day till he was seventy and never a single grumble with the gut. And what now?

She pursed her lips, eyeing the vacant hob like a cassocked priest contemplating abandoned pews.

Leave it out, Mum, Oliver winced, breaking off a flaky pastry. Itll be fine. Shell rustle something up now.

Leave it out? Let you waste away? I only want the best for you! Look at yourselfworn thin, pale. This comes from poor food and a house in disarray. A woman ought to make the home, a nest a man wants to hurry back to. But here? Dust, dirty dishes, and pasta. Poor womans not fit to keep house, Oliver. Did I not warn you before your wedding?

Mrs. Davis! Emily placed the kettle down with a resounding clatter.

Everyone fell silent. Mrs. Davis stared, startled; Emily never raised her voice. She was the swallow-your-pride type.

Mrs. Davis what? Am I not allowed a word of truth? Ive lived a life, you know. I know about holding a family together.

Emilys gaze swept the kitchen: her husband, worn out and chewing, pretending to be elsewhere; her triumphant mother-in-law, the bowl of defrosted mince leaking gently on the side. Something in her brain snapped, cool and clear.

Youre absolutely right, said Emily evenly. Im a terrible housekeeper. Dreadful. I dont get to the ironing, I dont do daily soup, and I cant wipe dust by Wednesdays. Im out earning the money were saving for the new carso Oliver can ferry you to the cottage, by the way. But thats no excuse, is it?

There you areadmitting it! Mrs. Davis cheered, missing the point. Self-awareness is the first step to improvement, you know.

Except I wont be improving, Emily shook her head. I simply havent got the energy. But Ive a plan. Mrs. Davis, since you care so much about Olivers welfare, and have all this time on your hands now youre retired why not take the housework on yourself?

Take on what? Mrs. Davis looked about rapidly.

Everything. The whole household. Ill step back. Ill just sleep here, pay my share for the mortgage and bills. Youre the gold standardshow us how its done. Cook proper meals for Oliver, iron the shirts, mop the floors. You only live two bus stops away. Youve already got a set of keys.

Oliver stared at his wife, mid-chew.

Em, have you lost it?

Why not? Emily smiled sweetly. Mums right. You deserve better. I cant cope. Why not let your mum help? Not just with wordsactions. Lets try it, one month. If, after a month, Olivers happier this way, Illwell, Ill take a homemakers course. Or quit my job.

Mrs. Davis blinked. She was used to criticism, to advice-giving, to tutting. But actually running a household for a grown man and a three-bed semi? That never factored in her plans. Yet retreat was impossibleher housewifely pride was staked.

Of course Ill do it, she sniffed, chin aloft. Youll see, you both will! Oliver will get proper home-cooked food if its the last thing I do. But only if you promise not to get in my way. The kitchen will be my kingdom.

All yours, Emily spread her arms wide. I wont touch the stove. Ill eat at work or grab a sandwich somewhere.

Settled! Mrs. Davis barked. Ill be round first thing, sort this place out. Someones got to.

The evening wilted under the weight of odd tension. Oliver attempted a chat when their bedroom lights clicked off, but Emily faced the wall.

Sleep, she murmured. Tomorrow a new life beginsfor you and your freshly ironed shirts.

Next morning, while Emily was away early for work, Mrs. Davis descended upon the flat with the martial air of a colonel. She blitzed every surface, scrubbed windows, boiled curtains (they were grey with dirt, although theyd always been oatmeal), and rearranged the kitchen cupboards down to the last packet of tea cakes.

When Emily returned, she barely recognised the place. The air reeked of bleach and onions. There was Mrs. Davis, rosy-cheeked, bashing pans about in a frilly apron. Oliver sat at the table in front of a monster bowl of stew with a dollop of cream, while a supporting cast of cottage pie, salad, and British cured ham attended at his elbow.

Well, finally decided to grace us with your presence, worker bee, Mrs. Davis didnt even turn to look. Wash your hands and sit. Ill serve up. None of that office canteen nonsensereal stew, done the slow way, three hours on the hob.

Thank you, but Ive already eaten, Emily replied, drifting off to the bedroom.

In the bedroom, a surprise awaited. All her belongings had been moved. Her neatly sorted underwear now rose in towers by colour. Trinkets from her bedside were crammed into a drawer. Her night-time read had vanished.

Emily padded into the lounge.

Mrs. Davis, wheres my book? It was on my nightstand.

Oh, that thing? the mother-in-law called, stepping out of the kitchen, drying hands. Put it away. No need for clutter. Bedside tables should be clear; makes dusting easy. And your wardrobe, Emilyhonestly, I couldnt believe it. Pants all muddled with socks. I sorted everything. A proper woman keeps her wardrobe like a chemists shop.

Emily clenched her jaw. The total invasion of privacy was epic, but she reminded herself: Experiment. Bear it.

Thanks for the help, she managed, and shut herself in to change.

The first week played like a masterclass in British cookery. Oliver was in heaven, feasting nightly. Mrs. Davis arrived by noon, cooked, cleaned, hovered over her son, quizzed him about work, and left only when the soaps ended. Emily, meanwhile, came in, greeted everyone, then retreated to laptop or book, discovering something startling: three whole hours of free time. No racing to the shops, no cooking, no loading the dishwasher (Mrs. Davis washed up by hand, muttering that machines never did it properly). Emily joined a swimming pool, began professional reading, and wandered the park after work.

Halfway through week two, Olivers enthusiasm began to wilt.

Em, he whispered in the night, their bedroom dark. How longs Mum yknow, planning to keep all this up?

One month, love. Thats the deal. Dont you like it? Stiff collars, homemade stewthe works.

The foods great, yeah but theres just so much Mum. I come home, want a cuppa and some peace, and shes there, going on about varicose veins, Mrs. Modd across the road, the price of bacon. Constant fussingEat more, Oliver, Why no seconds? Let me massage your back. Feel like Im five.

Part of the package, Emily grinned in the twilight. No more pasta, though.

And she keeps moving my things! Yesterday my lucky socks were goneshe binned them because of a speck. They were my lucky socks, Em!

Tell her. Shes doing it for you.

I did! She took offence. Said I was ungrateful, treating her like a skivvy.

Come week three, the white flag appeared from Mrs. Davis herself. Old age and the unfamiliar grind were taking their toll. Keeping a three-bed spotless, lugging groceries (Greengrocers carrots are better than that supermarket rubbish, Emily) and making casseroles daily at 65 was not, it turned out, a gentle hobby.

One evening, Emily found her mother-in-law whimpering on the lounge sofa, flannel on her forehead. The flat smelled of lavender oil and boiled marrow bones. Oliver hovered nearby, sheepish.

Whats happened? Emily asked flatly.

Her blood pressure, Oliver groaned. Mum spent all day making jellied eel, then scrubbed the floors by hand (Mops only smear the grime, Emily!) and now here we are.

Oh, Emily, my back my heart’s all fluttery, Mrs. Davis murmured, eyes squeezed shut.

Emily fetched the blood pressure monitor. It read high, but nothing drastic. Fatigue, most likely.

You need a couple days in bed, Mrs. Davis. Why push yourself?

But wholl feed Oliver? Hell starve! You wont do it, will you?

As we agreed, no, confirmed Emily. Our deal stands.

Mum, forget food for a bit! pleaded Oliver. Well order pizza. Or Ill sort out something. Stop running yourself ragged.

Pizza Mrs. Davis muttered in horror, but she hadn’t the strength for more argument. All right, then. Today, order what you like. Tomorrow, Ill come back. My yeast doughs resting in the fridge.

But she didnt. Next morning, Mrs. Davis rang: couldnt move, back seized, sciatica playing up.

Oliver exhaled with relief that was almost comic. That evening, he and Emily ordered sushi, cracked open a bottle of wine, and let a golden hush settle over the flat, as if the general in pearls had never existed.

Em, lets call off this experiment, said Oliver, dunking a roll in soy sauce. Seriously. I cant do this any more. I love Mum, but only at a distance. Ill live on navy pasta every day, just so long as nobody touches my underwear drawer or gives me life lessons.

And what happened to creature comforts? Emily teased. Stiff collars?

Sod the collars! Ill buy those no-iron shirts, never look back. Em, you were right, and I had no idea. Its exhausting, and if youre also working at the same time Respect. Ive no idea how you ever managed.

Emily smiled. At last, the words shed been longing to hear.

But the storys real ending came a few days on, when Mrs. Davis, revived a little, turned up to inspect the garrison. She arrived, clocked the pizza boxes in the bin (Oliver, of course, hadnt taken them out), the lone mug in the sink, and said nothing.

She eased herself onto a kitchen chair, pensive.

Emily, she said when her daughter-in-law came in, tea in hand, Ive been lying in bed, thinking. This is hard going.

Whats hard?

The whole lot. Its a big flat. Washing those floors the back cant take it. And Oliver well, hes a slob, isnt he? Throws his socks about, leaves crumbs everywhere. Id never noticed beforespent half the day trailing after him. I say something, he snaps.

Hes a man, Emily said gently, quoting Mrs. Daviss own phrase. Surely he needs a clean home.

Clean, yes, but with a bit of consideration! Mrs. Davis retorted, bristling unexpectedly. Im his mother, not the housemaid. I spent three hours rolling cabbagehe says its chewy. Wouldnt mind if hed just do it himself, then! Mum, stop your naggingcan you believe?

Emily stifled a giggle. The illusion of a perfect son had collapsed at the sight of real, day-to-day life, with mother as maid.

Mrs. Davis, Emily sat opposite her, gently resting a hand on her arm. Youre a wonderful homemaker. Ill never manage like you, and truly, I dont even try. Weve got our own way, Oliver and me. Both work; both get tired. Sometimes theres clutter, sometimes dinner is oven chips. Were happy. When were in the mood for a proper roast or spotless house, well come see you. Is that all right?

Mrs. Davis gazed at her hands, roughened with scouring cream these last few weeks.

Thats fine, she sighed at last. Just warn me in advance. Ive series to watch, seedlings to tend Id rather be in the spa, if Im honest. Ive done my bit. Tell Oliver, his shirts are ironed and in the cupboard. But the next lot, he can do. Or you can. Or he can go out creased, for all I care. My healths more important.

She drained her tea, stood, smoothed her cardigan.

And your books back on your nightstand. Some sort of outlandish fantasy, but never mindits your business.

When Oliver arrived home, the flat was peaceful once more. No tang of bleach or onions, only that faint whiff of Emilys perfume. Sausages bubbled on the stove; a tin of peas gleamed on the table.

Mum gone? he asked hopefully.

She has, Emily nodded. Passed on the crown. The experiments overearly retirement on health grounds.

Oliver wrapped his arms round her, burying his nose in her hair.

Thank you, he breathed.

For sausages?

For being clever. And for giving me my peaceful life back. I love youmessy housekeeping or not.

Im not messy, Emily smiled, hugging him tight. Im just modern. And anyway, these sausages are top-tier, by the way. Only the Best of British for us.

Mrs. Davis didnt stop giving advice, of course; some things are eternal. But now, when she ran her finger along a dusty shelf, she would simply sigh meaningfully. And if she started on a womans duty, Emily would ask, Mrs. Davis, fancy staying for a week to help? Just as Im off on a business trip And Mrs. Davis would immediately recall urgent milk-boiling, the cat unfed, her favourite series startingthen make a dash for the door.

Peace was restored. As for the dust it stayed, but it never really bothered anyone. The most important thing was that no one disturbed anyone elses way of living.