Trapped Between Two Floors: A Daughter-in-Law’s American Tale

“Emily! Where’s my soup?”

Her voice slices through the thin floorboards, echoing up through the heat vent as if she’s standing right next to me. I stare at the faded linoleum beneath my feet and grip the ladle tight. I should be used to Margaret’s summons by now. After all, three years living in the apartment above her, you’d think my skin would’ve grown thick enough to withstand the constant barrage. But some days, like today, it feels like every spoonful I ladle out is just another piece of myself I’m losing.

I clatter the bowl onto the tray and add a chunk of bread—her favorite, the kind with the seeds she always complains get stuck in her teeth. I force a smile, practicing it in the microwave’s reflection. “Coming, Margaret!”

Toby, my husband, is in the living room, half-listening to a podcast, half-watching our son play with toy trucks. He glances up, sees the tray, and looks away. “Don’t forget her pills,” he mumbles, barely audible over the rumble of the dryer.

I want to snap, to ask why he never takes the tray down himself, why it always falls on me, but I know how that conversation ends. We’ve played out the same script so many times: he shrugs, says he’s tired from work, that she listens to me better anyway. I swallow the retort and fish the little orange bottle from the cabinet.

As I descend the creaky stairs, the smell of old perfume and mothballs grows stronger. Margaret’s door is already open. She’s perched in her recliner, legs propped up, TV blaring one of those endless judge shows. “Took you long enough,” she says, not looking away from the screen.

I set the tray down, careful not to spill. “Sorry, Margaret. Needed to let it cool.”

She inspects the soup, pokes at the bread. “You used too much salt again. You know my blood pressure.”

“Sorry,” I murmur again. It’s always sorry. I hand her the pills and she swallows them with a grimace.

She eyes me over her glasses. “Toby’s coming down for dinner?”

“No, he’s got some work to finish. I’ll bring his plate up.”

Margaret tuts, shaking her head. “He works too much. You should tell him to spend more time with his mother. One day, I won’t be around, and then what?”

I bite back the urge to say, “One day, I might finally breathe.” Instead, I smile—tight, polite, the one I’ve mastered in three years of living above her. “I’ll tell him, Margaret.”

The rest of the day blurs into a series of small chores and silent resentments. I fold laundry while Toby scrolls on his phone. Our son, Ben, builds towers and knocks them over, giggling, oblivious to the tension that fills the apartment like steam. I’m careful not to sigh too loudly, not to complain, because Toby’s patience is thin these days. The stress of his job, the mortgage, the never-ending obligations to his mother—it’s like we’re all carrying too much, and I’m the only one who can’t set anything down.

At dinner, I ask, “Can we talk about maybe getting some help for your mom? Just a few hours a week—someone to check in, maybe do some shopping or cleaning?”

Toby doesn’t look up. “We can’t afford that, Em. You know how tight things are. Besides, she doesn’t like strangers in the house. She trusts you.”

I press my lips together, feeling the frustration rise in my chest. “But it’s getting to be a lot. I barely have time for Ben, or for myself—”

He cuts me off. “She’s family, Em. What do you want me to do? Put her in a home?”

I flinch. I know how that conversation would go, too. Margaret would cry, Toby would get angry, and I’d be the villain. So I swallow my feelings and change the subject, asking Ben about preschool, letting the argument die before it’s born.

Later, after Ben is asleep, I stand by the window, staring out at the streetlights flickering over the empty road. I can hear Margaret’s TV droning below, the muffled sound of her cough, the creak of her recliner. I think about my own mother, a thousand miles away in Texas, who calls every Sunday and asks if I’m happy, if I’m taking care of myself. I always say yes. It’s easier than explaining the truth.

Sometimes I wonder how I ended up here—in this small town, in this old duplex, living my life in ever-shrinking circles. I had dreams once. I wanted to teach, to write, to travel. Now my world is measured in bowls of soup and pill bottles, in the careful balance between kindness and self-preservation.

One night, after a particularly brutal day, Margaret falls in the bathroom. I hear the crash and rush downstairs, heart pounding. She’s shaken but not hurt, and as I help her up, she clings to my arm, her voice small and frightened. “Don’t leave me, Emily. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

For a moment, all the resentment melts away, and I see her—not as the overbearing mother-in-law, but as a lonely, aging woman, terrified of being abandoned. And I realize I’m trapped, not just by obligation, but by a compassion that feels like both a blessing and a curse.

After Margaret is settled back in bed, I sit in the dark kitchen, tears streaming down my face. I don’t know how to keep giving without losing myself. I don’t know how to ask for help without being made to feel guilty. I don’t know how to make my husband understand that love shouldn’t mean erasing who I am.

The next morning, as I ladle soup into a bowl, I wonder: How many pieces of myself can I give away before there’s nothing left? And if I disappear, bit by bit, will anyone even notice?

So I ask you—how do you set boundaries with family, when love and duty are tangled up so tight you can’t tell them apart?