I never thought I’d find myself arguing about dryer sheets with my mother-in-law at midnight, but that’s my new reality.
A few years ago, my husband and I moved in with his parents because the rent in Houston was eating into our savings. A “temporary stay” at my in-laws was supposed to be a temporary solution. We estimated six months, tops. Now it’s three years, two career changes, and many “Are you still there?” jokes from my sister.
Although we’re saving money, it comes at a cost, as I’ve learned you can’t hide in a multigenerational household.
It’s not easy living with my in-laws for this long
I feel like I’m always sneaking around. I often creep into the kitchen early in the morning to prepare coffee without waking my mother-in-law up early.
Date nights are like an escape plan. My husband and I whisper what we’re streaming on Netflix because the television in our room has a wall that my in-laws’ closet shares. Our arguments stay half-whispered, half-swallowed. Thin walls are our biggest problem.
Irritants become daily tightropes, too. I once found my wet laundry heaped in a basket. There was no note, just a crisply folded pair of jeans that never quite dried. I was annoyed but couldn’t say anything.
There is a whole choreography to claiming fridge shelves, freezer space, and the prime pantry corner. We also have to label our leftovers in Sharpie so no one “accidentally” eats our takeout after a late night.
I realize there are benefits to this living arrangement
If you’re imagining anarchy, you’re on the right track, but that’s only half the picture. There are perks that I sometimes forget about.
When both my husband and I got COVID, my mother-in-law filled our bedroom doorway with soup, saltines, and bottomless mugs of mint tea.
When our toddler threw a tantrum because I cut his toast “incorrectly,” my father-in-law leapt into the conversation and calmed him down in the way only granddads can. I have watched my son spend more time with grandparents in one week than I did in a year.
I also get cooking lessons from my mother-in-law; she taught me to make tamales on Christmas. We worked together, using her mother’s steamer pot, which is older than my marriage.
Either way, this is where my family needs to be right now
Some days, it’s stifling. Other days, it’s the only reason we’re still afloat.
In Houston, starter homes look like luxury listings. This arrangement means our savings account exists at all. It means backup when day care falls through or the car breaks down. It means someone slips a plate of mango slices into my hand when they know I’ve had a rough day.
The American dream needs a rewrite; sometimes it is not a white picket fence but a third fork at the dinner table, an in-law on the couch in the middle of a telenovela, and a sign that you don’t have to do it all alone.
Do I dream about owning my own place someday? Yeah. I dream of shutting a door and knowing nobody else can hear. But when we finally unpack that last moving box, if we ever do, I will miss the smell of tortillas in the morning, the stories of distant cousins I never met, and the way this messy, chaotic house has quietly taught me that family isn’t just who you wed.
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