Today I need to get this off my chest. I’ve been mulling this over for days, and I can’t take it anymore. Washing the floors at my in-laws’ house? Don’t even dream about it! I, Lucía, at thirty-eight years old, have decided it’s time to live for myself, not spend all day cleaning their enormous house. My in-laws, Julio Manuel and Marta Isabel, are ninety-two and eighty-three, respectively. Of course, at their age, they can no longer handle household chores. My husband, Javier, is their only son—they had him in their forties—and now everyone looks at me as if I were their savior. But I didn’t sign up to be their housekeeper! The neighbors murmur, my in-laws insinuate, and I’ve said enough: my time is mine, period.
We’ve been married for ten years, and all this time I’ve tried to be a good daughter-in-law. My in-laws aren’t bad people, but they are difficult. Julio Manuel, despite his age, still has energy: he walks with a cane, reads the newspaper, and loves to tell stories from his youth. Marta Isabel is weaker, almost always sitting in her armchair, knitting or watching TV shows. Their house is large, old, with wooden floors and a bunch of rooms they refuse to rent or sell. “This is our nest,” they say. And I wouldn’t mind, if that “nest” hadn’t become my headache.
At the beginning of our marriage, I went to their house often: cleaning, cooking, accompanying them to the doctor. I didn’t mind; I thought it was temporary. But the years passed, and their demands grew. Now, every time we go, Marta Isabel looks at me with a sad face and sighs: “Oh, Lucita, the floors here… they’re so dusty.” And Julio Manuel concludes: “You’re so hardworking, daughter-in-law, this is expensive.” Hardworking? I work in marketing, I have two children, a mortgage, and a thousand other things to do. When did I become their housekeeper?
A few days ago, we arrived for the weekend, and as soon as we walked in, Marta Isabel thrust a bucket and a mop into my hands: “Lucia, clean up a bit, I can’t do it with my feet anymore.” I froze. Am I her trusted cleaner? I said politely: “Marta Isabel, I can’t do it today. My back hurts, and I have a lot to do.” She frowned, and Julio Manuel muttered: “Young people these days are so comfortable.” Comfortable? After work, I pick up the kids from school, check their homework, eat dinner late… and they talk to me about comfort?
I told Javier I wasn’t going to clean his house anymore. He, as always, tried to mediate: “Honey, they’re older, it’s hard for them. What’s the problem with giving us a hand?” A hand? It’s every time we go! I reminded him they have a good pension, they could hire someone. But Javier just sighed: “You know they don’t like letting strangers in.” Oh, but do I? I set an ultimatum: either we hire help or I’ll never touch a rag again. He promised to talk to them, but I know he’s embarrassed and won’t insist.
The neighbors, of course, already know everything. In our town, gossip spreads wildly. The other day, Doña Carmen, my in-laws’ neighbor, said to me at the supermarket: “Lucia, how can you leave those poor old people like that, after everything they did for Javier?” She almost blurted out: “So what about me? I don’t do anything for my family?” Why do they assume I should sacrifice myself for their house? I respect Julio Manuel and Marta Isabel, but I’m not their maid. I have my children, my dreams. I want to take up yoga, travel with the kids, read a book without thinking about other people’s lands.
I proposed a compromise: we’d help with shopping and doctor’s appointments, but cleaning wasn’t my thing. Marta Isabel frowned: “Do you want to bring strangers into our house?” And Julio Manuel added: “We thought you were like a daughter.” Daughter or maid? I held back, but inside I was burning. Doesn’t anyone think about how I feel? And now, as I write this, I take a deep breath and tell myself that saying “no” doesn’t make me a bad person, just someone who has decided to prioritize my own life.
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