Im just an ordinary daughterinlaw, no tiara in sight, juggling a fulltime job and a threebedroom flat in Manchester that were still paying off mortgage, council tax, utilities, and the daily grind from sunrise to the witching hour.
My motherinlaw, Ethel, lives out in a tiny Cotswold village, and her daughterinlaw, Milly, is right there with her. Everything would be fine if they hadnt decided that our flat was the perfect weekend resort. At first their announcement sounded cute:
Well pop over on Saturday, they chirped.
Just for a little while, we replied.
Were family, after all.
Ah, just for a little while in their vocabulary means an overnight stay; pop over comes with suitcases, empty pots and eyes that are already scanning the kitchen for a feast.
Every weekend repeats the same script: I race home from work, dash through the shops, cook, wash, set the table, smile, and then, halfpast midnight, still scrubbing dishes and tidying up. Ethel sits on the sofa and muses:
Whys there no corn in the salad?
I like my stew a bit richer.
We dont do that back in the village.
Milly adds, Oh, Im knackered from the road. and No dessert, then?
And not once do I hear a Thank you or an offer to pitch in.
One evening I finally snapped at James:
Im not a housemaid, and Im fed up with catering to your family every weekend.
Maybe we should actually do something about it, he agreed.
A plan sprouted in my head.
The next time Ethel rings, she says, Were coming Saturday.
I answer calmly, Sorry, weve got weekend plans.
She presses, What plans?
Just our own, I reply.
And guess what? We really did leave not for plans but straight to Ethels house. On Saturday morning James and I stood on her doorstep. Ethel flung the door open and froze.
What on earth is this? she shrieked.
Were just popping round. Briefly.
You ought to warn us! I havent cooked a thing! Do you know how pricey it is to host guests?
I looked her straight in the eye and said, See? Thats my life every weekend.
She shot back, So youve decided to teach me a lesson? How cheeky!
Her scream set off the whole street, and we hightailed it back home.
Since that day there have been zero uninvited visits. No more Well pop over and no more weekends spent in my kitchen. Sometimes, to be heard, you simply have to show people what it feels like to stand in your shoes.
Do you think I acted rightly? What would you do in a similar spot?
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