Hunger on Schedule: Why I’m Escaping Life at My Mother-in-Law’s
I never imagined my life would turn into some kind of military boot camp, where every move is monitored and any slip from the routine is punished… by starvation. But that’s exactly how I feel now—trapped in a place with no choice and zero say in anything. All because my husband and I are temporarily living with his mum.
You’d think it’s no big deal—just another young couple trying to save up for their own place. Me and Alex really wanted to get on our feet faster, take out a mortgage, pay it off, and move into our own cosy little nest. While we were sorting things out, his mum was staying with his sister, helping with the new baby, and left us her three-bedroom house. Back then, I had no idea what kind of “welcome” we’d face when she decided to come back.
Life without her was peaceful. I kept everything spotless, making sure she’d have nothing to nitpick when she returned. The place sparkled, pots gleamed, the cupboards were perfectly organised. But turns out, she couldn’t care less about cleanliness. The only thing that mattered? The schedule. Breakfast at 7:30 sharp. Dinner before 8 p.m. Miss it? Tough luck. No food for you.
I work as a designer, and sometimes I’m up till dawn—urgent projects, last-minute edits, deadlines. Occasionally, my boss lets me come in later. But the problem? If I step into the kitchen past 10 a.m., the fridge gets slammed shut right in my face. She insists I must’ve “slept through breakfast,” so now I don’t get to eat. Even if it’s my own yoghurt. Even if it’s a sandwich I made myself!
The same goes for dinner. If Alex and I get home late, I’m not allowed to eat without him. And if he’s back after eight? Guess he’s going to bed hungry. Why? Because “it’s not on schedule.” When I tried explaining that adults eat when they want, I was told, “In my house, we do things my way.” Oh, and by the way—we chip in for the bills too, but who’s counting?
And the bathroom? Oh, that’s a whole other nightmare. I love unwinding in a warm bath after a long day. But nope—there are rules. Bathing in daylight? Forbidden. “Water’s expensive, the meter’s running,” “Daytime’s for getting things done, not lounging in the tub.” If I dare lock the door, she’ll knock. Or worse, try to open it. Seriously, I’m not exaggerating. It’s ridiculous.
Weekends became torture. Slept in till ten? No breakfast—day ruined. “Young people these days, so lazy, sleeping till noon!” she mutters, slamming cupboard doors for effect. I’m not relaxing anymore—I’m just surviving.
Alex, poor thing, grew up with this. He doesn’t see how mad it is—he just says, “Mum’s always been like this.” But I don’t buy that. I won’t bend to someone who won’t even let me eat a spoonful of porridge in my own home because “time’s up.”
I’m done waking up on command and feeling like a kid who missed lunch. I won’t beg for a bath or explain why I skipped breakfast at 7:30. I’m a grown woman. I pay my way. I work. I’m a human being, for goodness’ sake.
I’ve given Alex an ultimatum—either we move back to our flat, or I’m leaving. I’m not his mum’s enemy, but I’m not her puppet either. I want to live, not exist by a timer.
Sometimes you’ve got to lose comfort to gain freedom. And I’m ready. Because my life isn’t some Excel spreadsheet or army drill. I want to be happy—not just “fed on time.”