My mother-in-law curses me for stealing her son—the one who refused to bow to her every whim.
Three years ago, I stepped into my husband’s family home for the first time and knew instantly: there had never been room for happiness for my Robert in that house. All the warmth of a mother’s heart had gone to the youngest son, Oliver, while Robert was little more than a shadow—an obedient servant, expected to jump at her every command. Oliver, on the other hand, was drenched in adoration: spoiled, shielded like some fragile heirloom, never lifting a finger.
His mother, Margaret Hampton, and father, David Hampton, lived in a sprawling timber-framed house at the edge of a village near the Cotswolds, surrounded by endless fields and a winding river. The place demanded constant upkeep—leaky roofs to patch, fences to mend, gardens to weed. Then came the chickens, the goats, the vegetable plot—enough work for an entire crew. I thanked my stars that Robert and I lived miles away in London, a four-hour journey from their estate. He, too, was relieved by the distance. Yet the moment he stepped foot in that house, an avalanche of chores crushed him as though he were some hired hand, paid in scraps rather than love.
When we first married, Margaret spun us fairy tales of country bliss—bonfires under the stars, fishing by the river, fresh air, and homemade cider. We fell for it, deciding to spend our first holiday at their place, dreaming of quiet evenings by the water, of peace broken only by rustling leaves. Those dreams shattered the moment we arrived at the train station.
Exhausted from the journey, we barely crossed the threshold before rest became a myth. Robert was thrust into broken wellies and sent to mend the garden fence. I was shoved toward a mountain of potatoes and dirty dishes left over from some gathering. Then came cooking—for his parents, their friends, distant relatives. Two weeks of leave became a sentence of labour. We lit a bonfire once—to grill meat for their guests. Robert never set foot by the river. The worst, though, was Oliver. While we raced around like hunted animals, he sprawled on the veranda with his phone or slept till noon, his life cycling between the sofa, the kitchen, and the loo. And all the while, Margaret gazed at him like he was her one miracle, her pride.
By the seventh day, I snapped. That night, when we were finally alone, I turned to Robert. “Why does your brother do nothing? What is he actually doing, besides sleeping?” My husband, staring blankly at the ceiling, murmured that Oliver was “destined for greatness.” Margaret insisted he needed time to focus on his studies—manual labour was beneath him. His studies, mind you, had stretched nine years—dropping out, re-enrolling, failing again. And Robert? He’d spent years bending over backwards—fixing roofs, chopping wood, digging plots. That was until I entered his life.
That “holiday” was the last straw. I told Robert it was time to shake off the weight of their expectations. Why should he break his back while Oliver lived like gentry? Couldn’t his brother lift a finger? His parents waited months for our visits just to patch the barn or whitewash walls—things his father could’ve managed himself. But Margaret guarded Oliver like treasure, refusing to let him so much as hold a broom.
To my relief, Robert listened. For the first time, he saw the truth—how unfair it was. Enough. No more rescues. When the next bank holiday came, despite Margaret’s calls, we stayed home. We skipped Christmas too. Then, when we finally saved enough for a real holiday—sand, sun, freedom—we told them. Margaret erupted. She screamed that we’d betrayed the family, that they needed our help. Robert, voice icy, asked what exactly they needed. Turned out, they’d started renovating the veranda—and of course, expected us to finish it.
That’s when he lost it. “You have another son,” he shot back. “Maybe it’s time he did something?” His mother stammered—Oliver was busy, couldn’t be disturbed. But Robert reminded her how he’d worked for them while at university because “Oliver was too young.” Now? Now Oliver was grown, yet still untouchable. “Mum,” he said, voice cracking, “You have two sons. But it’s like one is yours, and I’m just—nothing.” Then he hung up.
Within minutes, Margaret called me. Her voice trembled with rage and tears. She accused me of poisoning her son’s mind, of tearing their family apart, of stealing Robert from her. I hung up without a word and blocked her number. And I don’t regret it for a second.
If Robert were their only child, I’d be the first to insist we help. But when one son lives like royalty while the other is treated like serfdom—that’s not family. That’s exploitation. I refuse to let my husband feel like an outcast in his own blood. And if that means cutting ties with his mother, so be it. Our lives are ours. And we’ve finally chosen ourselves.
