My mother-in-law was famous for her perfect household, but she never stopped criticizing mine. I had no intention of arguing anymore. I wanted to see how far her reputation would carry her.
I’m Sarah, twenty-eight, a marketing manager. I worked full-time, just like my husband, Marcus.
When Marcus and I bought our house, his mother offered us money.
“We don’t need it,” Marcus said.
“Are you sure?” Linda asked.
“We both have good jobs,” I said.
His mother offered us money.
Marcus squeezed my hand. “We’ll build everything ourselves.”
But somewhere along the way, he forgot that promise.
According to his mother, Linda, the house was still my responsibility.
She came over several times a week, inspecting everything.
“Dust on the shelf again, Sarah?”
He forgot that promise.
“Linda, I cleaned it yesterday.”
“And these spices?” She pulled out a ruler. “They’re not even lined up.”
Once, she opened Marcus’s dresser.
“You don’t iron his socks and underwear?”
I stared at her. “What?”
“You’re supposed to iron them, fold them neatly, and put them away properly.”
The house was my responsibility.
Then she inspected the kitchen.
“A wife should cook real homemade food. Frozen pizza isn’t dinner, and neither is restaurant delivery.”
“I work forty hours a week too, Linda.”
She waved me off. “My son works all day. Cleaning and cooking are women’s work. He’s tired enough when he gets home.”
Iron them.
That evening, I complained to Marcus about his mother.
He shrugged. “Mom’s old-fashioned. Just ignore her.”
During our first year, my husband cooked breakfast and washed dishes. By our third anniversary, he treated the dishwasher like unfamiliar military equipment.
“Marcus, could you handle dinner tonight?”
“I’m tired.”
“And the laundry?”
He’s tired enough.
“Can’t it wait?”
“I worked all day too.”
“Sarah, please. Just order something.”
“And your mother will complain.”
“Then don’t tell her.”
Just ignore her.
One evening Linda inspected the bathroom and frowned.
“You missed a spot.”
“Linda, I cleaned the bathroom this morning!”
“Then you didn’t do a very good job. The toilet is a woman’s face. If it’s dirty, everyone knows what kind of wife lives here.”
That was enough.
Your mother will complain.
But I didn’t argue.
I smiled.
***
That Friday, I invited Linda over.
“What’s the occasion?” Marcus asked.
“Dinner.”
The toilet is a woman’s face.
“Mom’s coming?”
“I invited her.”
“Please don’t argue tonight.”
“I won’t.”
And that was the truth. I had something much more interesting planned.
Dinner.
***
After dessert, I placed two envelopes on the table.
“One for each of you.”
Marcus frowned. “What’s this?”
“Something I should’ve done a long time ago.”
Linda opened hers first.
I had something much more interesting planned.
Her face changed. “You can’t do this to us!”
Wondering why Linda reacted that way?
Well, there was a little more to the story.
***
Linda, fifty-nine and widowed, lived in a mansion with a full staff.
I placed two envelopes.
She was also a respected member of a prestigious women’s charity club, where she ran paid homemaking workshops.
“Another cooking class?” I once asked.
“Women appreciate my expertise.”
“Did you make that lasagna yourself?”
Why Linda reacted that way?
“Of course! Look at the photograph.”
At first, I believed Linda really was the perfect housewife. And for three years, I tried to be one too.
I bought organizers, learned complicated recipes, and cleaned until midnight.
“Linda, I made that casserole you recommended.”
“Did you use fresh herbs?”
Look at the photograph.
“Yes.”
“And homemade stock?”
“No, but…”
“Then it’s not the same recipe, Sarah.”
Nothing was ever good enough.
Linda really was the perfect housewife.
Even Marcus noticed. “Why do you keep trying so hard?”
“Because she’s never satisfied.”
“Then stop trying.”
Easy for him to say.
But something had been bothering me.
Nothing was ever good enough.
Linda had a full household staff, yet somehow expected me to do everything alone.
Why hadn’t I questioned that before?
