I really need some advice—an outside perspective—because I’m at my wit’s end.
Two years ago, my family moved into my in-laws’ house in Manchester. We’ve got a flat of our own, but it’s just bare walls right now, and the renovations are swallowing every penny. To avoid drowning in debt, we decided to stay with my husband’s parents for a while.
James, my husband, was clear from the start: we’d take care of the bills and all the groceries. His parents are pensioners, living on very little, and I knew they wouldn’t be able to keep up otherwise.
But it’s not like we’re rolling in money either. I’m on maternity leave with our one-and-a-half-year-old, and things are tight. Really tight. Still, I’ve always been good at stretching a budget—before the baby, I’d meal-plan like a pro to keep things tasty, affordable, and waste-free.
Everything was fine… until we moved in.
The first month, I hung back and observed. I watched my in-laws’ routines, trying to understand what they ate and how they lived. Turned out, my father-in-law, Mr. Thompson, doesn’t eat much in one go, but he snacks constantly. He’ll open a tin of beans and spread it over toast for three days straight. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Thompson, isn’t fussy either—but they’ve got their own patterns, and I tried my best to adapt.
By the second month, I’d taken over the cooking. Like always, I planned meals, bought groceries in bulk… and that’s when the nightmare began.
The ham and cheese I’d bought for salads or sandwiches? Gone overnight. I’d come down in the morning to find my father-in-law happily munching cheese on toast, with just scraps of ham left behind. I’d head back to the shop—again—spending money we really didn’t have.
My careful planning? Out the window. The worst is when you’re mid-cooking and realize half the ingredients have vanished. It’s like feeding five people in a house with a ghost that eats.
Don’t get me wrong—my in-laws are lovely. They took us in, and I’m grateful. Truly. But I’m cracking under the pressure.
I spoke to James, and he just shrugged. “What can I do? I’m staying out of it.”
Staying out of it? What about me? I’m the one managing the food, the shopping, the stress. But I can’t exactly march in and say, “Hands off—that’s mine!”
Lately, I’ve been seriously considering hiding food. But where? We share one fridge. The cupboards are communal. I skulk around the kitchen like a spy in my own house, trying to protect tomorrow’s dinner.
I don’t want a fight. But I also can’t keep watching our money—and my sanity—disappear every time someone gets the munchies.