All I dream of now is escaping this “mother” who allows no peace for herself or me.
Each stage of life brings its own form of rest. As a child, I’d count down to summer holidays with giddy anticipation: Mum and Dad would be present then, picnicking by the riverbank, laughing freely, living at a slower pace. My first job reshaped rest into stolen moments—tea with friends, strolls through the park, rare evenings curled with a book. Now, rest feels like a myth. Something as distant as fog over the moors.
My name is Natalie Hartley. I’m thirty-six, and for nine years, I’ve been drowning in exhaustion. It began when my husband and I moved into his mother’s house after our wedding—supposedly “just until we saved enough.” A decade later, we’re still here, trapped in a home where I can’t breathe, body or soul.
On paper, it’s fine: a spacious house in Surrey, a garden, the children at a good school, my husband’s steady job. What more could one want? But this isn’t happiness. Because I’m not mistress here. Because my mother-in-law dissects every choice I make, every sigh, every ache.
To my husband, it’s bliss: two women orbiting him. I cook, clean, rush the kids to school, work remotely, repeat. His mother critiques, monitors, nitpicks. He plays the guest—arrives, eats, sprawls on the sofa, remote in hand. No “thank you,” no “need a hand?” Why? Because his mum never asked. “She managed alone, so can you,” he muttered once, eyes glued to his phone.
I can’t anymore.
His mother boasts of raising two sons solo, juggling work and home like medals of honour. She doesn’t mention her husband left her for someone younger, or that she’s now riddled with ailments, baffled by her own martyrdom. Her answer’s plain: she never spared herself—or anyone else.
She worships relentless toil, especially at the allotment. Her mantra: “Proper living comes from the soil!” Apples, carrots, jars of preserves—all hand-grown, not for joy, but duty. As daughter-in-law, I’m drafted. Refuse? You’re lazy. Complain? You’re weak.
Last week, we lugged sacks of potatoes and jars back from the plot. She limped; I swayed under the weight. My husband? Didn’t budge from the sofa. Didn’t glance up from the telly. As if women exist to haul burdens.
That night, something snapped. I sat filthy and weeping at the kitchen table, realising: I won’t live like this. I’m thirty-six going on ninety. No marrow or beetroot is worth my life. I want weekends without alarms. Silence. Space to think.
I’ve decided: I’m leaving. Taking the kids, returning to my parents. No more waiting for change. *I’ll* change. I’m done proving myself to her. I’m enough.
Soon, I’ll tell my husband: choose—Mum’s allotment or a family crumbling under her outdated rules. Health isn’t homegrown veg. It’s peace, lightness, freedom.
I won’t become a woman who wakes at sixty with a bouquet of illnesses, wondering, “What for?” I’ll buy my veg at the market. Spend weekends cycling with the kids, picnicking under skies that smell of ice cream and possibility—not sweat and soil.
