My mother-in-law is convinced I tore the family apart by stealing her son away.
Three years ago, fate introduced me to my husband’s family, and from the very first moment, it was clear: my Timothy got the short end of the stick in that household. All the warmth, all the affection, went to the younger son, Daniel, while Timothy might as well have been a ghost—just an errand boy, always ready to jump at their every whim. Their mother, Marjorie, coddled and babied the youngest, shielding him from the slightest inconvenience as if he were made of porcelain, while the eldest was treated like a pack mule.
Marjorie and her husband, George, lived in an old timber-framed cottage on the edge of a village near the lakeside, a three-hour drive from our city. A place like that is endless work—roofs to patch, firewood to chop, garden beds to dig. Not to mention the chickens, the cow, and the never-ending vegetable plot—enough chores to bury ten men alive. I was grateful Timothy and I lived far away in our own flat, where none of that madness touched us. And honestly, so was he. But the second he stepped foot in that cottage, down came the avalanche of tasks, as if he were hired help, not their son.
When we first got married, Marjorie enticed us with promises of idyllic countryside getaways—barbecues at sunset, woodland walks, fresh air, and homemade jam. Foolishly, we bought into the fantasy and decided to spend our first holiday there. We imagined lazy evenings by the fire, peaceful chats, nothing but birdsong for miles. Reality, however, had other plans.
The moment we stumbled off the bus, dusty and knackered from the long journey, our holiday vanished like a puff of smoke. Timothy was shoved into wellies and sent off to mend the garden shed, while I was dragged into the kitchen to face a mountain of dishes left over from some family feast. And then? Cooking for the entire village, it seemed. A holiday? More like indentured servitude. Two weeks of constant running around. We managed one rushed barbecue between chores. Our woodland walks remained a distant dream. The worst bit? Watching Daniel, Timothy’s younger brother, sprawl on the sofa like a pampered cat—flipping TV channels, scrolling through his phone. His routine was simple: bed, loo, fridge. And Marjorie gazed at him adoringly, as if he were the jewel in Britain’s crown.
By day five, I’d had enough. That evening, when we finally had a moment alone, I asked Timothy, “What exactly does your brother *do*? Why is he exempt from everything?” He sighed and said Daniel was “the clever one”—destined for greater things, according to Marjorie. Too precious for manual labour, apparently. He was studying, you see. Never mind that he’d been at it for eight years, flunking out and crawling back in. Meanwhile, Timothy had always been the one bailing his parents out—fixing fences, chopping logs, patching leaks. And that’s how it had been long before I came along.
That “holiday” was the final straw. I started talking to Timothy about changing the rules. Why should he carry the entire household while Daniel lived like royalty? Couldn’t the golden boy lift a finger for once? His parents waited months for us to repair the chicken coop or paint the gate—jobs George could’ve done himself. But Marjorie wouldn’t hear of disturbing Daniel—he was “studying,” after all.
Luckily, Timothy finally saw the light. For the first time, he realised he was being taken for granted. No more free labour, he agreed. We stopped giving in. When Easter rolled around, despite Marjorie’s relentless calls, we didn’t go. Or the next holiday. And when we finally booked a real getaway—sun, sea, and glorious freedom—we told the family. Marjorie exploded. She shrieked down the phone that we *had* to come, they *needed* help. Calmly, Timothy asked what for. Turns out, they’d started renovating the cottage—and, naturally, expected us to pitch in.
That’s when my husband snapped. He said outright, “You’ve got another son, Mum. Maybe it’s his turn?” Marjorie spluttered—Daniel was *busy*, he couldn’t *possibly.* Timothy reminded her how *he’d* worked himself to the bone for them as a student because “Daniel was just a kid.” And now? Now Daniel was grown, yet still untouchable. “Mum, you’ve got two sons,” he said. “But it’s like one’s family, and the other’s a stranger.” Then he hung up.
Less than a minute later, Marjorie called *me.* Her voice trembled with rage. I’d poisoned Timothy against them, she hissed. Torn him away from his family. I listened for a few seconds, then quietly blocked her number. And you know what? I don’t regret it one bit.
If Timothy had been an only child, I’d have been the first to insist we help his parents. But when one son’s treated like a king and the other like a servant? That’s not right. I won’t let my husband feel like an outsider in his own family. And if that means cutting ties with Marjorie, so be it. Our lives aren’t their property. And for the first time, we’ve chosen ourselves.
