— No Need for You at the Table, You’re Meant to Serve Us! — Declared My Mother-in-Law. I stood by t…

And there’s no reason for you to sit at the table. You should be serving us! my mother-in-law declared.

I stood by the stove in the hush of the morning kitchen, clad in crumpled pyjamas and with my hair loosely tied back. The air was thick with the scent of toasted bread and strong tea.

On a small stool beside the table sat my seven-year-old daughter, Charlotte, her nose buried in her sketchbook, diligently drawing colourful loops with her markers.

Are you baking those diet baps again? came a stern voice from behind.

I jumped a little.

My mother-in-law, Mrs. Edith Walker, was standing in the doorwayher face as unyielding as stone, her tone brooking no protest. She wore a dressing gown, hair pulled tightly in a bun, lips drawn tight.

I had to eat whatever I could find for lunch yesterday! she went on, snapping a tea towel at the edge of the table. No soup, nothing proper. Can you make eggs the normal way? Not in any of your modern fancies!

I switched off the stove and reached for the fridge.

A rigid coil of frustration twisted in my chest but I swallowed it down. Not in front of my child, and not in a house where every inch seemed to whisper, Youre just passing through.

Ill do it now, I managed, turning away so she wouldnt see how my voice trembled.

Charlotte kept her eyes fixed on her markers but watched her grandmother out of the corner of her eyequiet, cautious, on edge.

“Living with my mother-in-law”

When Henry suggested we move in with his mother, it seemed almost sensible.

Well stay there just a bit, he said. Two months at most. Its close to work, the mortgage will be approved soon. She has no complaints.

I hesitatednot because I was at odds with Edith. No, wed always been civil. But I knew the truth: two adult women in one kitchen is a powder keg.

Edith had an obsessive need for order, control, and moral judgment.

But there was hardly any other choice.

We sold our old flat quickly, and the new place was still being sorted. So the three of us moved into Ediths two-bedroom flat.

Just for now.

Daily control became normal

The first few days were calm. Edith was quite polite, even set out an extra stool for Charlotte and offered us her homemade pie.

But by the third day, the rules appeared.

My house is orderly, she declared at breakfast. We rise at eight. Shoes are kept in the rack. Groceries are agreed with me. Keep the television quiet; Im sensitive to noise.

Henry waved it off with a smile:

Mum, its just for a while. Well manage.

I nodded silently.

Yet well manage began to sound like a life sentence.

I started to withdraw

A week passed. Then another.

The routine grew ever more strict.

Edith swept Charlottes drawings off the table:

Theyre in the way.

She removed the checkered cloth Id placed:

Its impractical.

My cereal disappeared from the cupboard:

Been there too long; likely stale.

My shampoos were relocated:

Dont want them cluttering up my space.

I felt not like a guest, but like someone without a voice or a right to an opinion.

My food was wrong.

My habitsunnecessary.

My childtoo noisy.

And Henry repeated the same thing:

Bear it. Its Mums house. Shes always like this.

Daily, I lost more of myself.

Less and less remained of the woman who had once been calm and assured.

Now I only adjusted and endured.

Living by someone elses rules

Every morning, I rose at six to get to the bathroom first, to make porridge, to sort Charlotteand avoid Ediths disapproval.

In the evenings, I made two dinners.

One for us.

And one by standard for her.

No onions.

Then with onions.

Then only in her saucepan.

Then only in her frying pan.

I dont ask much, she chided. Just for things to be done properly. The way theyre meant to be.

The day the humiliation became public

One morning Id just managed to wash my face and set the kettle going when Edith waltzed into the kitchen, as though privacy didnt exist.

My friends are coming today. Two oclock. Youre at home, so set the table. Pickles, salad, something for teajust as you do.

Just as you do meant a table fit for a celebration.

Oh I didnt know. Ingredients

Youll buy. Ive made a list. Nothing difficult.

I dressed and went to the shops.

Bought everything:

Chicken, potatoes, dill, apples for pie, biscuits

I returned and began cooking non-stop.

By two oclock, everything was ready:

Table laid, chicken roasted, salad fresh, pie golden.

Three retirees arrivedneat, with curled hair and scents from a bygone age.

Within minutes I realised I wasnt a part of the company.

I was the staff.

Come on now sit beside us, Edith smiled. So you can serve us.

To serve you? I echoed.

Whats the fuss? Were old. You dont mind.

Again I was there:

With a tray, with spoons, with bread.

Pour us some tea.

Pass the sugar.

More salad.

Chickens a tad dry, grumbled one.

Pies a bit overdone, added another.

I bit my tongue. Smiled. Cleared plates. Poured tea.

No one asked if I wanted to sit.

Or catch my breath.

How marvellous to have a young housekeeper! Edith announced with feigned warmth. Everythings just right because of her!

And at that moment something inside me snapped.

That evening, I told the truth

After the guests left, I washed the dishes, tidied away the leftovers, laundered the cloth.

Then I sat at the end of the sofa, an empty cup in hand.

Night was falling outside.

Charlotte slept, curled up in a ball.

Henry sat beside meface buried in his phone.

Listen I began, quietly but firmly. I cant do this anymore.

He looked up, surprised.

Were like strangers here. Im merely the one who serves everyone. And you do you even see it?

He said nothing.

This isnt a home. Its a life where Im always adjusting, always silent. Its me and Charlotte in this. I cant bear more months. Im tired of being convenient and invisible.

He nodded slowly.

I see Forgive me for not seeing it before. Well find a flat to rent. Anything so long as its ours.

That very night, we started looking.

Our homeeven if small

The flat was modest. The landlord had left old furniture. The floors creaked beneath the linoleum.

But when I crossed the threshold a sense of freedom washed over me. As if, at last, Id found my voice.

Here we are, Henry sighed, dropping the bags.

Edith said nothing. Didnt even try to change our minds.

I didnt know if she was offended, or simply realised shed gone too far.

A week passed.

Mornings began with music.

Charlotte drew on the floor.

Henry made tea.

And I watched, smiling.

No stress.

No rushing.

No bear it.

Thank you, he whispered one morning as he hugged me. For not keeping silent.

I looked him in the eye:

Thank you for hearing me.

Life wasnt perfect.

But this was our home.

With our rules.

Our noise.

Our life.

And it was real.

What do you think: if you were in this womans position, would you get through those few months, or would you have left after the first week?