And me? I was in the kitchen, balancing trays of snacks and refilling drinks like an unpaid server.
“Hey, we’re out of beer!” one of his friends yelled. “Sweetheart,” Frank called to me, not even bothering to stand, “Can you grab some from the garage?” I clenched my jaw, my blood boiling, but I grabbed the beer.
When another one of his friends tapped his glass and said, “A little more ice,” I nearly lost it.
After the game, as Frank walked his buddies to the door, I overheard him chuckling and saying to Brian, “See?
That’s how you should treat a woman.”
The words hit me like a slap. I felt my stomach twist as the realization sunk in. This wasn’t just about poker night — it was about a pattern.
I’d seen it for years in the way Frank treated my MIL like she was there solely to cater to him. Now he was training my husband to do the same.
It started small, almost unnoticeable. “Hey, can you grab me a drink while you’re up?” Brian would ask, even when I wasn’t already standing.
At first, I didn’t think much of it — he’d always been good about splitting chores and being considerate. But then, those small favors turned into expectations.
One evening, as I was folding laundry, Brian walked past with a plate from his dinner. Instead of putting it in the sink like he always did, he left it on the coffee table.
“Can you take care of that?” he asked, not even breaking stride.
Another time, I was in the middle of preparing dinner when he strolled into the kitchen. “Don’t forget I need my blue shirt ironed for tomorrow,” he said, planting a kiss on my cheek like it would soften the demand.
That was it. “No, Brian,” I said, my voice firm.
“I’ve taken it seriously enough. You both need to understand—this stops now. I am not your maid, and I am not his either.”
The tension in the room was thick, and I could see Brian’s stunned face as I walked out, determined that things were about to change—for good.
The very next morning, after a sleepless night of seething and strategizing, I sat down at the dining table with my laptop and began typing out a “rental agreement.” I wasn’t going to charge Frank rent, but I wanted clear, no-nonsense rules.
If he was going to stay under our roof, things were going to change.
The rules were simple but non-negotiable:
I printed it out, stapled the pages together, and waited until Frank came into the kitchen. He looked startled to see me sitting there, sipping my coffee with a hard copy of the rules in front of me.
“Morning,” he said cautiously, sensing the shift in my demeanor.
“Morning,” I replied, pushing the document toward him. “We need to talk.”
“What’s this?” he asked, frowning as he scanned the first page.
“It’s a rental agreement for staying in this house,” I said evenly.
“These are the rules moving forward.”
Frank blinked at me, his face turning red. “Rules? What is this, the army?
I’m your guest!”
“No,” I said sharply. “You’re not a guest anymore. You’ve been here for weeks.
You’re family, which means you’re not entitled to sit back while everyone else waits on you. This is how it’s going to work if you’re staying here.”
Brian walked in midway through the exchange, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on?” he asked, glancing between us.
“Your wife is trying to turn this house into a dictatorship,” Frank said, slapping the paper onto the table.
Brian picked up the agreement and skimmed it.
“Uh, isn’t this a bit… much?” he said, hesitating.
“No, Brian,” I said, meeting his eyes. “What’s much is your father treating me like I’m his maid? And lately, you’ve started doing the same.
That stops today.”
The room fell silent. Frank looked like he was ready to explode, and Brian seemed torn. But I held my ground, unflinching.
“You can either follow the rules,” I said, standing up, “or find somewhere else to stay.”
Frank opened his mouth to argue but closed it again, realizing I wasn’t bluffing.
For the first time in weeks, I felt in control — and I wasn’t about to let that go.
When my mother-in-law, Sarah, finally came home from the hospital, I was both nervous and relieved. Nervous because I had no idea how she’d react to what I’d done, and relieved because, frankly, Frank had been a handful.
As she settled on the couch, sipping the tea I’d made her, I slid the “rental agreement” across the table. “Sarah,” I began, choosing my words carefully, “I need you to see this.
It’s something I worked on while Frank was staying here.”
Her brows furrowed as she read, her lips tightening at first. By the time she got to Rule 5, she glanced up at me with a knowing smile. “Oh, I like this one,” she said.
“Mutual respect. Novel concept for him.”
I exhaled, grateful she didn’t seem offended. “I know you care deeply about him,” I said, sitting beside her.
“But Sarah, he’s been relying on you for far too long. It’s not fair to you. And while he was here… well, let’s just say I realized how much you’ve been carrying all these years.”
Her eyes softened, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of exhaustion.
“You’re right,” she said quietly. “It’s been like this since the day we got married. I just… I thought it was my job.”
“No,” I said firmly, taking her hand.
“It’s time for him to step up. Not just for your sake, but for his.
Sarah chuckled, shaking her head. “I wish I’d done this years ago.”
When Frank came into the room, Sarah waved the paper in the air.
“You’ve got work to do, mister,” she said, her voice playful but firm.
He groaned, muttering something about a conspiracy, but Sarah stood her ground.
As they walked into the kitchen together, I couldn’t help but smile. For the first time, it felt like Sarah wasn’t carrying the entire load alone.
“Hey,” Brian said, coming up behind me. “You really think he’ll stick to it?”
I turned, watching Sarah guide Frank to the sink where she handed him a dish towel.
For the first time, he didn’t argue — he just started drying.
I smiled, my voice steady. “He doesn’t have a choice. Because this time, we’re all playing by the rules.”
Source: amomama
