My mother-in-law is convinced I tore the family apart by stealing her son away from her.
Three years ago, fate brought me into my husband’s family, and from the very first moments, it was clear: my James had never known a mother’s love in that house. All the warmth, all the care, was reserved for the youngest son, Edward, while James was little more than a shadow in their lives—a boy to run errands, expected to bend to their every whim. His mother coddled and doted on the younger one, shielding him from the slightest hardship as if he were a fragile bloom, while the elder was treated like little more than a workhorse.
Margaret Thompson and her husband, William Thompson, lived in an old timber-framed cottage on the edge of a lakeside village, a three-hour journey from our town. In a place like that, there’s always more work than hands to do it—fixing the roof one day, chopping firewood the next, turning the vegetable patch the day after. And then the chickens, the cows, the endless rows of crops—enough work for ten men. I was grateful we lived far away in our own flat, untouched by their never-ending toil. James, truth be told, was just as happy to keep his distance. But the moment he stepped into his parents’ home, a mountain of chores came crashing down on him, as though he were hired help rather than their own flesh and blood.
When we first married, Margaret would insist we visit, painting the idyllic picture of country life—barbecues at sunset, woodland walks, fresh air, and homemade honey. Seduced by the fantasy, we decided to spend our first holiday together in the village. We dreamed of quiet evenings by the fire, long talks under the stars, the silence broken only by birdsong. But reality was harsher than we could have imagined.
No sooner had we stepped off the coach, dusty and tired from the long journey, than our holiday vanished into thin air. James was handed a pair of old boots and sent to mend the shed, while I was dragged into the kitchen to face a tower of dirty dishes left behind after some family gathering. And after that—cooking for the whole household: father-in-law, mother-in-law, their neighbours, relatives. A holiday? No, it was labour. In two weeks, we scarcely had time to catch our breath. We had one rushed barbecue between chores. Those woodland walks? Never happened. But what infuriated me most was Edward, James’s younger brother. While we dashed about like harried packhorses, he lounged on the sofa, flicking through TV channels or scrolling mindlessly on his phone. His daily routine was simple: bed, toilet, fridge. And yet Margaret gazed at him adoringly, as though he were some national treasure.
By the fifth day, I’d had enough. That evening, when we were finally alone, I asked James, “What exactly does your brother do? Why doesn’t he lift a finger?” He sighed and told me Edward was the “scholar” of the family. Manual labour wasn’t his calling—their mother spared him for greater things. Supposedly, he was studying, pouring all his energy into books. Never mind that he’d been at it eight years, getting expelled, then readmitted. And James? James had always been the one to rush home and save the day—mending fences, chopping wood, patching the roof. That was the way of things long before I came along.
That “holiday” was the last straw. I began talking to James about changing the rules. Why should he carry the whole household on his back while Edward lived like a prince? Couldn’t the younger one at least share the load? His parents waited months for us to come and fix the chicken coop or paint the gate, though William was perfectly capable himself. But Margaret wouldn’t let a finger be laid on her precious Edward—he was the “scholar,” after all, too important for distractions.
Thankfully, James began to listen. For the first time, he saw the truth: he’d been used. He agreed—enough was enough. No more free labour. We stopped giving in to their demands. When Easter came, despite Margaret’s relentless calls, we didn’t go. Nor for any holiday after that. And when we finally had the chance for a real holiday—by the sea, with sun and freedom—we told the family. Margaret exploded. She shrieked down the phone that we *had* to come, that they needed help. James calmly asked what for. Turned out they’d started home repairs—and, of course, expected us to handle it.
That was when my husband snapped. He told her plainly, “You have another son. Maybe it’s his turn?” She tried to argue—Edward was too busy studying, no time for such things. But James reminded her how, even as a student, he’d worked himself to the bone for the family because “Edward was just a boy.” And now? Now Edward was a man, yet still untouchable. “Mum, you’ve got two sons,” he said finally. “But it’s always felt like one was yours, and the other was just… there.” Then he hung up.
Less than a minute later, Margaret called me. Her voice shook with rage. She accused me of turning James against his family, of poisoning his heart, of tearing him from his roots. I listened to the tirade for a few seconds, then silently blocked her number. And you know what? I don’t regret it for a moment.
Had James been an only child, I’d have been the first to insist he help his parents. But when there are two sons, and one lives like a king while the other is a servant, that’s not justice. I won’t let my husband feel like a stranger in his own family. If that means cutting ties with his mother, so be it. Our lives aren’t theirs to command. At long last, we’ve chosen ourselves.
