A Hunger on Schedule: Why I’m Escaping Life at My Mother-in-Law’s
I never imagined my life would turn into some sort of boot camp, where every move is monitored and any deviation from routine is punished… by hunger. That’s exactly how I feel now—like a prisoner in my own home, with no say in anything. All because my husband and I are temporarily living with his mother.
You’d think it wouldn’t be so bad—plenty of young couples do it while saving up for their own place. James and I genuinely wanted to get on our feet faster, secure a mortgage, pay it off, and move into our own cosy nest. While we were sorting things out, his mum stayed with his sister, helping with the new baby, leaving us her three-bed terraced house. Little did I know the “surprise” waiting for us when she decided to return.
Life without her was peaceful. I kept everything spotless, scrubbing every pan till it gleamed, arranging the cabinets with military precision—just so she’d have nothing to nitpick. Turns out, she couldn’t care less about cleanliness. What mattered was *the schedule*. Breakfast at exactly 7:30 AM. Dinner before 8 PM. Miss the slot? Too bad. No food for you.
I work as a designer, and sometimes I’m up till dawn—tight deadlines, urgent revisions. Once, my boss let me come in late. But the problem? If I step into the kitchen past 10 AM, the fridge gets slammed shut in my face. According to her, if I “missed breakfast,” I don’t *get* breakfast. Even if the food was mine. Even if it was my own yoghurt or sandwich.
Dinner’s no different. James and I often work late, but I’m not allowed to eat without him. And if he’s home after eight? Tough. He goes to bed hungry. Why? Because “rules are rules.” When I tried explaining that adults eat when they’re hungry, I was told, “My house, my rules.” Oh, and did I mention? We help with the bills—but that doesn’t matter, does it?
Then there’s the bathroom. I like a hot soak after a long day. But no—daytime baths are forbidden. “Water’s expensive, the meter’s running,” she’ll say. “You’ve got better things to do than lounge around.” If I lock the door, she knocks. Or worse, tries the handle. Yes, really. It’s absurd.
Weekends are a nightmare. Sleeping past ten? No breakfast for you. “Lazy, the lot of you!” she mutters, slamming cupboards for effect. I’m not relaxing—I’m just surviving.
James grew up with this. To him, it’s normal—“Just how Mum is.” But to me? It’s madness. I won’t adjust to someone who won’t even let me eat a spoonful of porridge because “time’s up.”
I refuse to live like a scolded schoolgirl, begging for soup after being “late.” I won’t ask permission for a bath or justify why I skipped breakfast at 7:30 sharp. I’m a grown woman. I pay my way. I work hard. I’m a *person*, for heaven’s sake.
I’ve given James an ultimatum: either we move back to our flat, or I leave. I’m not his mother’s enemy—but I’m not her servant, either. I want to *live*, not exist by some timer.
Sometimes you have to lose comfort to find freedom. And I’m ready. Because my life isn’t a spreadsheet or a drill sergeant’s checklist. I’d rather be happy than “on time.”
