My FIL Moved Into Our House After My MIL Ended Up in the Hospital & He Tried to Make Me His Maid — He Didn't Expect My Response
When my father-in-law moved into our house, I believed we were helping him out. Soon, however, his stay became something I never expected — it pushed my patience, affected my marriage, and tested my limits.
When my mother-in-law suddenly ended up in the hospital, my father-in-law, Frank, appeared completely lost. He always relied on her for everything — cooking, cleaning, even taking his medicine. Without her, he seemed aimless.
He confessed, "I don't know what to do with myself," when my husband, Brian, and I visited him a few days after her hospitalization. His voice was quiet and lacked its usual cheer, and his shoulders slumped.
Brian squeezed my hand and gave me the look — the one signaling he was about to make a spontaneous decision I would have to address later. Before I knew it, he said, "Why don't you come stay with us for now? Being alone isn't good."
Frank's eyes brightened immediately, and before I could stop him, he started packing his suitcases for our guest room, despite claiming it was only "temporary."
Initially, everything seemed fine. He appeared grateful and a little shy, hesitant about imposing. But then, small adjustments started to emerge.
One afternoon, while I was on a Zoom call for work, he called out, "Hey, dear, can you get me some coffee? I can’t find the pods."
"They're right there on the counter," I responded.
"Yeah, but you know how to operate the machine better," he said with a chuckle, as if it was endearing.
Soon, he was asking, "Can you make me a sandwich?" and "Don't forget my toast in the mornings. I like it golden." One day, he handed me a basket of his clothes, saying, "I'll need these for golf tomorrow. Thanks, daughter."
Brian was always "too busy" to notice these requests. Still, my patience wore thin, and I wondered how much longer I could keep up.
The breaking point arrived on a Thursday evening — a night I will never forget. Frank decided to hold poker night at our house without asking me first.
He said that morning, flashing a grin while rummaging through the fridge, "Just a few guys, nothing big. We'll keep it neat. You barely will notice we're here."
By 8 p.m., the living room transformed into a smoky den filled with laughter, the sound of chips, and loud chatter. Meanwhile, I was managing snack trays and refilling drinks, like an unpaid waitress.
"Hey, we're out of beer!" one friend called out. Frank looked at me from across the room and said, "Sweetheart, can you grab some from the garage?" I clenched my jaw, furious, but grabbed the beer.
Later, when another friend asked for "a little more ice," I almost lost control.
After the games, Frank was walking his friends to the door, chuckling, and saying to Brian, "See? That's how you should treat a woman."
That comment made my stomach turn. I realized then—this wasn’t just about poker night. It was part of a pattern. I had noticed it for years in how Frank treated my late mother-in-law — as if she existed only to serve him. Now he was teaching my husband the same.
It started with small favors, like asking Brian, "Hey, can you get me a drink while you're up?" even when I wasn’t nearby. At first, I thought it was harmless, since Brian had always split chores and shown consideration. But gradually, those favors became expected.
One evening, I was folding laundry when Brian passed by with a dinner plate. Instead of putting it in the sink, he left it on the coffee table and asked, "Can you take care of that?" without stopping.
Another night, I was preparing dinner as he came in and said, "Don’t forget I need my blue shirt ironed for tomorrow," planting a kiss on my cheek in a way that made it clear he expected me to handle everything.
That was enough. I said firmly, "No, Brian. I’ve had enough. This stops now. I am not your maid, and I won’t be his either."
The tension grew thick, and I saw Brian’s surprised expression as I walked away, determined to change things for good.
Next morning, after a restless night, I sat at the table with my laptop and started typing a "rental agreement." I wasn't planning to charge Frank rent, but I wanted clear rules. If he was going to stay with us, things had to change.
I wrote down straightforward rules:
- I cook one meal daily for everyone. If someone wants something else, they prepare it themselves.
- If you can do it yourself, you do it — including fetching drinks, doing laundry, and cleaning up.
- Everyone cleans up their own mess. Dishes go in the dishwasher, not the sink. Laundry is folded and put away by the person who wore it.
- If you invite guests, you are responsible for hosting, including food, drinks, and cleaning afterward.
- No sexist comments or behavior — respect is mandatory.
- Contributing to household chores is required, not optional. You live here; you help out.
I printed the agreement, stapled the pages, and waited until Frank came into the kitchen. He looked surprised to see me sitting there, drinking coffee and holding the printed rules.
"Morning," he said cautiously, sensing the change.
"Morning," I replied, pushing the document toward him. "We need to talk."
He looked at the paper and asked, "What is this?"
"It's a rental agreement for staying in this house," I said calmly. "These are the new rules."
Frank’s face reddened. "Rules? What’s this? I’m your guest!"
I shook my head. "No, you’re not a guest anymore. You've been here for weeks. You're family. That means you’re not entitled to sit back and be waited on. This is how it works from now on."
Brian entered, yawning, and looked between us. "What’s happening?" he asked.
Frank placed the paper on the table and said, "Your wife is trying to turn this house into a dictatorship."
He looked at the agreement, hesitating. "Isn’t this a bit much?" he asked.
I met Brian’s gaze. "What’s much is your father treating me like I’m his maid. And now, you’re starting to do the same. That stops today."
The room grew silent. Frank looked ready to explode, and Brian seemed torn. But I stayed firm.
"You have two choices: follow the rules or find somewhere else to stay."
Frank hesitated but saw I was serious. For the first time in weeks, I felt in control — and I wasn't willing to give it up.
When my mother-in-law, Sarah, finally returned from the hospital, I was both nervous and relieved. I didn’t know how she would react to what I had done, but I was glad that Frank had been a handful.
She sat on the couch, sipping tea I made her, and I slid the "rental agreement" across the table. "Sarah," I said carefully, "I want you to see this. I drafted it while Frank stayed here."
Her eyebrows furrowed as she read, and her lips tightened at first. But by the time she reached Rule 5, her expression changed to a smile. "I like this," she said. "Respect. That’s new for him."
I exhaled, relieved she wasn’t upset. "I know you care about him," I said, sitting beside her. "But Sarah, he’s relied on you for too long. It’s not fair to you. While he was here… I realized how much you've been carrying all these years."
Her eyes softened. She nodded quietly. "You’re right. It’s been like this since we married. I thought it was my job."
"No," I said strongly, holding her hand. "It’s time for him to step up — not just for you, but for himself."
Sarah shook her head, smiling. "I wish I’d done this years ago."
When Frank came into the room, Sarah held up the paper. "You’ve got work to do, mister," she said playfully but firmly.
He groaned, muttering about a conspiracy, but she stood her ground.
As they headed into the kitchen, I felt a small smile. For once, it seemed like Sarah wasn’t carrying everything alone.
Brian approached from behind. "Do you think he'll stick to it?" he asked.
I watched Sarah guide Frank to the sink and hand him a dish towel. This time, he didn’t argue. He just started drying.
I smiled and spoke clearly. "He doesn’t have a choice. Because now, we're all playing by the rules."
When our family sat down to dinner, I looked around at the table. Things felt different, more balanced. Finally, we all knew what to expect.
