Have you ever encountered someone who’d pay your boss to fire you, all to make you a “better wife”? I never thought I would, but here I am—Tina, 35, career-oriented and married to Alvin, the love of my life. That “someone” turned out to be my mother-in-law, Joyce. Despite being a woman, mother, and wife herself, she believed women belonged in the kitchen, not an office. Little did she know, she was in for a rude awakening…Let me give you some backstory: Joyce, my 67-year-old mother-in-law, is the epitome of an old-fashioned woman, straight out of a 1950s sitcom. Think June Cleaver from “Leave It to Beaver,” but with an extra dash of judgmental flair and none of the warmth.
When Alvin and I got married five years ago, I had initially planned to become a housewife. It seemed like the natural progression of things, and honestly, I thought it would make everyone happy, especially Joyce.But life has a funny way of surprising you.
Shortly after our wedding, I landed a job as an assistant manager at a local bridal boutique. It was supposed to be temporary, just something to keep me busy until we started a family.
However, I quickly discovered that I had a knack for the business. My boss, Mr. Lincoln, saw potential in me and started grooming me for a higher position.
Within a year, I had been promoted to manager, and our boutique’s sales had skyrocketed. I was in love with my job.The satisfaction of helping brides find their perfect dresses, the thrill of closing big sales, and the sense of accomplishment I felt at the end of each day… it was intoxicating.
I knew then that I couldn’t give it up. My career had taken off, and I changed my mind about staying home.
Alvin was supportive of my decision. He loved seeing me passionate about something and was proud of my accomplishments. But Joyce? Well, that was a different story entirely. Apparently, she couldn’t accept it.Every weekend, when Joyce visited, it was pure hell. There wasn’t a single day she wouldn’t grumble about my lack of homemaking skills or how I was “too engrossed” in my work.
It started subtly at first… a disapproving glance when she noticed dust on the shelves, a tsk-tsk when she opened our fridge to find more takeout containers than home-cooked meals.
But as time went on, her disapproval became more vocal and pointed.”How can you call yourself a wife when other women take care of your man?” she’d say, her voice dripping with disdain. “A woman’s place is in the kitchen, not some office desk, girl.”
Then she’d launch into a rant about how she was an “obedient” housewife who took care of her husband and children from dawn to dusk, her tiny world revolving around them. How she didn’t hire any housekeeper like I did.She’d go on and on about how she always had a hot meal ready when her husband came home, how she kept their house spotless, and how she sacrificed her own dreams for the sake of her family.
Now, I’m not saying Joyce was entirely wrong. I respect women who choose to be homemakers. It’s a tough job that often goes unappreciated.
But we weren’t living in the 70s or 80s anymore. Times have changed, and so have expectations. Alvin and I were partners… equals. We shared household responsibilities and supported each other’s careers.
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