My mother-in-law curses me for stealing her son, who refused to serve her every whim.
Three years ago, I first stepped into the house of my husband’s family, and from the very beginning, it was clear: my William had no place for happiness in that nest. All the warmth of his mother’s heart went to the younger son, Thomas, while William was merely a shadow—an eternal servant, bowing to her every command. Thomas, meanwhile, basked in adoration: spoiled and coddled like a fragile treasure, never lifting a finger to help.
My mother-in-law, Margaret Wilkins, and father-in-law, Edward Wilkins, lived in a grand timber-framed house on the edge of a village, surrounded by endless fields and a river. Such places are never short of chores—fixing the porch, reinforcing the shed, weeding the garden, tending to the chickens and goats. There was enough work for an entire crew. I thanked fate that William and I lived far away in London, a good five hours’ journey from their estate. He, too, cherished that distance. Yet the moment we set foot in his childhood home, an avalanche of tasks would crash upon him as if he were a hired labourer, not a son.
When we first married, Margaret spun tales of rural bliss—bonfires under the stars, fishing by the river, fresh air and homemade cider. Lured by these visions, we decided to spend our first holiday in their village. We dreamt of peace, long evenings by the water, and silence broken only by the rustling of leaves. But reality shattered those dreams the moment we stepped off the train.
No sooner had we crossed the threshold, weary from the journey, than rest turned to dust. William was thrust into a pair of worn-out boots and sent to mend the fence, while I was immediately set to peeling a mountain of potatoes and scrubbing dishes left from some forgotten feast. Then came cooking for an endless parade: Edward, Margaret, their friends, distant relatives. Two weeks of holiday became forced labour. We lit a bonfire just once—to roast meat for their guests. William never made it to the river. And what stung most was Thomas. While we toiled like beasts of burden, he lounged on the veranda with his phone or slept till noon. His life revolved around three places: the sofa, the kitchen, the loo. Yet Margaret gazed upon him with reverence, as if he were her only hope.
By the seventh day, I cracked. That night, when we were finally alone, I asked William, “Why does your brother do nothing? What does he do besides sleep?” My husband, staring wearily at the ceiling, said Thomas was a “future genius.” His mother believed he must preserve his strength for his studies—manual labour was beneath him. Those studies, mind you, had stretched nine years, marked by failures, reinstatements, and fresh disasters. And William? For years, he had rushed to their aid—patching roofs, chopping wood, digging the garden. That was, until I came into his life.
That “holiday” was the final straw. I began urging William to shed this burden. Why should he break his back while Thomas lived like a lord? Could the younger not lift a finger? His parents would wait months for our visits to repair the barn or whitewash the walls—tasks Edward could have managed. But Margaret guarded Thomas like a treasure, never letting him so much as hold a broom.
To my relief, William listened. For the first time, he saw the unfairness. No more would he be their eternal rescuer. We vowed not to yield to pleas. When May Day came, despite Margaret’s calls, we stayed home. We missed other holidays too. And when we finally booked a proper holiday—by the sea, with sun and freedom—we told his family. Margaret erupted like a volcano. She shrieked that we had betrayed them, that they needed our help. William coldly asked what for. Turned out, they intended to rebuild the veranda—and, of course, expected us to do it.
That very moment, my husband snapped. “You have another son,” he flung at her. “Perhaps it’s time he lifted a finger?” Margaret stammered that Thomas was busy with his studies, that he mustn’t be distracted. But William reminded her how he, as a student, had worked himself raw for the family because “Tom was too young.” And now? Now Thomas was grown, yet still untouchable. “Mum, you have two sons,” he said, his voice thick with hurt. “But it feels like one is yours, and the other—I’m just a stranger.” 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 William from her. I silently ended the call and blocked her. And you know what? I’ve not a single regret.
Had William been an only child, I’d have been the first to insist on helping his parents. But when there are two sons, and one lives like a duke while the other toils like a serf—that’s injustice. I refuse to let my husband feel like an outcast in his own family. And if cutting ties with his mother is the price, so be it. Our life is ours at last, and we’ve finally chosen ourselves.
