Gina Heslop
When my father-in-law, Frank, moved into our home, I thought we were helping him during a difficult time.
My mother-in-law, Sarah, had been hospitalized unexpectedly, and he seemed completely lost without her. He had always depended on her for everything—cooking, cleaning, even reminding him to take his medication. Without her, he didn’t know how to manage.
My husband, Brian, and I visited him a few days after Sarah’s hospitalization. He looked defeated, his usual cheerful tone replaced with uncertainty.
Brian, ever the impulsive problem-solver, suggested that Frank come stay with us for a while. Before I could even process the decision, Frank had moved in—with more suitcases than seemed necessary for a “temporary” stay.
At first, it was manageable. He was polite and grateful. But soon, small requests turned into expectations.
One afternoon, while I was on a Zoom call for work, he called out, asking me to make him a coffee. I told him the pods were on the counter. “Yeah, but you know how to work the machine better,” he chuckled.
Then it became sandwiches, toast at just the right shade of golden, and even his laundry. When he handed me a basket of clothes one day, saying, “I’ll need these for golf tomorrow. Thanks, daughter,” I knew this wasn’t just a temporary issue—this was how he expected things to be.
Brian, unfortunately, was too busy to notice. Or perhaps, he was starting to absorb his father’s habits.
The final straw came on a Thursday evening when Frank invited his friends over for poker night—without asking me.
By 8 p.m., our living room was filled with smoke, laughter, and the clinking of poker chips. Meanwhile, I found myself in the kitchen, refilling drinks and serving snacks like a waitress.
“Hey, we’re out of beer!” one of his friends shouted. “Sweetheart,” Frank called, not even bothering to get up, “can you grab some from the garage?”
I clenched my teeth and did it, but when another guest tapped his glass and said, “A little more ice,” I nearly lost it.
After the game, as Frank walked his friends to the door, I overheard him chuckling to Brian, saying, “See? That’s how you should treat a woman.”
That was it. I suddenly saw it all—the way Frank had treated Sarah for years, and the way Brian was starting to mimic it. The small requests had turned into expectations, and I wasn’t going to let this continue.
The next morning, I sat at the dining table with my laptop and typed out a “rental agreement.” I wasn’t going to charge Frank rent, but I was going to set clear rules. They were simple but firm:
1. I cook one meal for everyone per day. If you want something else, you make it yourself.
2. If you’re capable of doing something, do it yourself—laundry, dishes, fetching drinks.
3. Everyone cleans up after themselves.
4. If you invite guests over, you are responsible for hosting them, including cleaning up.
5. No sexist behavior or comments—this house runs on mutual respect.
6. Everyone contributes to household chores.
When Frank walked into the kitchen, I pushed the paper toward him. “We need to talk,” I said.
He frowned, scanning the page. “What is this?”
“It’s a rental agreement,” I replied. “These are the rules if you’re staying here.”
Frank’s face turned red. “Rules? I’m your guest!”
“No,” I corrected. “You’ve been here for weeks. Guests don’t get to expect to be served. If you’re staying, you contribute.”
Brian, half-awake, walked in and skimmed the paper. “Uh, isn’t this a bit much?”
“No, Brian,” I said firmly. “What’s ‘much’ is me being treated like a maid. This stops now.”
The room fell silent. Frank looked like he wanted to argue but knew I wasn’t bluffing.
A few weeks later, Sarah finally came home from the hospital. I was nervous about how she’d react, so I slid the rental agreement across the table for her to see.
She read through it, her lips tightening at first. But then she smiled. “Oh, I like this one,” she said, pointing to the mutual respect rule.
I exhaled in relief. “Sarah, he’s relied on you too much. It’s not fair to you.”
She sighed. “You’re right. It’s been this way since we got married. I just thought it was my job.”
“No,” I said, holding her hand. “It’s time for him to step up.”
When Frank walked in, Sarah waved the paper at him. “You’ve got work to do, mister,” she teased.
He groaned but didn’t argue.
Later, Brian whispered to me, “You think he’ll actually follow the rules?”
I looked over and saw Sarah handing Frank a dish towel. For once, he didn’t complain—he just started drying.
I smiled. “He doesn’t have a choice. Because this time, we’re all playing by the rules.”
