Shared kitchen and lazy daughter-in-law

**Shared kitchen and the lazy sister-in-law**

I live with Antón in his house—well, not exactly his. His younger brother, Pablo, and his wife, Jimena, are also there. We share the kitchen, buy food together, take turns cooking, and split the bills. Sounds like the perfect commune, right? Well, no. Jimena, our beloved sister-in-law, seems to think housework isn’t her job. She doesn’t wash a dish or peel a potato, and I’m about to put a broom in her hand and say, “Welcome to the real world!” But for now, I’m holding back, even though my patience is fading faster than oil in a frying pan.

Antón and Pablo inherited the house from their parents, and when we got married, we decided to all live together: it’s cheaper and it’s a big house, too. I didn’t think it was a bad idea: Pablo is quiet, works in a mechanic’s shop, and is almost never home. But Jimena… Oh, everything is more complicated with her. When she married Pablo, I thought she was just shy, that she didn’t want to get involved in common matters. But six months went by, and I realized: it wasn’t shyness. Jimena is the champion of avoiding any task. She can spend hours in her room, looking at her phone or painting her nails, while I cook dinner for the four of us.

Our system is simple: we all buy food and take turns cooking. Antón and I take care of half the week, Pablo sometimes grills meat or his famous sandwiches, and Jimena… Well, her turn is when she orders a pizza or puts a yogurt on the table with a little sign that says “dinner is ready.” And it’s not that she doesn’t like cooking, it’s that she doesn’t even do her dishes! I once did the math: in a week, I wash a mountain of dishes, and half of them are her coffee cups with latte residue. If I ask her to clean up, she looks at me like I’m an alien and says, “Oh, Lucía, sorry, I’ll do it tomorrow.” Tomorrow? That tomorrow never comes!

I tried to talk to Antón. “Toni,” I said, “your sister-in-law takes us for maids. Maybe Pablo can talk to her?” Antón laughed: “Lucia, don’t exaggerate, Jimena isn’t used to housework. She’s from the city; her mother did everything.” From the city? And me, what? A peasant? I grew up in the city too, and that doesn’t stop me from peeling potatoes or scrubbing the floor. When I hinted at something to Pablo, he shrugged: “Jimena is who she is. If she doesn’t want to cook, don’t make her.” Don’t make her? And who’s going to feed this bunch if I don’t want to either?

The other day there was a scene that tried my patience. I cooked paella, a good one, with rabbit, just the way Antón likes it. I spent two hours in the kitchen, setting the table, calling everyone. Jimena comes downstairs, pours herself a full plate, and blurts out, “Lucía, why is the paella so dry? It needed a little more broth.” I almost dropped my fork. Dry? Two hours by the fire to be told it’s not right? And she didn’t even thank me: she ate and left, leaving the plate dirty. I lost my temper and said, “Jimena, if you don’t like it, you cook it.” She just frowned: “Oh, Lucía, I don’t know, you do it better.” Better? Am I now the official chef of the house?

I’m thinking about what to do. The first option: go on strike. Stop cooking, cleaning, or shopping. Let’s see what Jimena does when the only thing left in the fridge is her yogurt. But I know Antón and Pablo will complain, and I don’t want to argue with my husband about them. The second: speak clearly. Tell her: “Jimena, this isn’t a hotel; either you cooperate or you eat out.” But I’m afraid she’ll pretend not to understand or start whining to Pablo, and he’ll blame me. The third: resign myself. But that’s not my style. I don’t plan on being a maid in my own house.

Sometimes Antón and I dream about moving. But the house is his family’s inheritance; he loves it, and I like it too: it has a garden, a terrace… I don’t want to give that up for Jimena. I even tried a trick: dividing the kitchen into “responsibility zones,” with each person taking care of their own food and dishes. But Jimena just nodded and continued drinking coffee from my favorite mug. There seems to be no way to convince her.

My friend gave me some advice: “Lucia, assign her a specific task. Tell her she cooks on Wednesdays, period.” I tried it. I assigned her the day, and she said, “Oh, Lucía, I’m busy on Wednesdays, why don’t you do it?” Busy? On social media? I’m about to put a schedule in the kitchen: “Jimena: your day, either pizza or hunger.” Maybe that’s how she’ll react.

For now, I’m holding back. I cook and clean, but every time I see her dirty cup, I imagine giving her a medal for “master of the lazy.” Antón promises to talk to Pablo, but I doubt it’ll help. Jimena is like a cat: she does her own thing, but eats from my plate. But I’ll find a way to set limits. This house is ours, and I won’t let a lazy sister-in-law make it her comfort zone. In the meantime, I just dream of the day I’ll wash at least one dish. Dreams… sometimes come true, don’t they?