My mother-in-law is convinced I tore the family apart by stealing her son away.
Three years ago, fate brought me into my husband’s family, and from the first moment, it was clear: my Tom had never known love in that house. All the warmth, all the care went to the younger son, Daniel, while Tom was just a shadow—a gofer, expected to leap at every whim. His mother coddled the younger one like a fragile bloom, shielding him from the slightest hardship, while the elder was nothing more than a beast of burden.
Mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, and father-in-law, Roger, lived in an old timber-framed cottage on the edge of the Lake District, three hours from our flat in Manchester. There was always too much work—fixing the roof, chopping firewood, turning the garden. Chickens, a cow, endless rows of vegetables—enough labour for ten men. I was glad Tom and I lived far away in our own place, untouched by their chaos. And truthfully, so was he. But the moment he stepped into their home, a mountain of chores would crash down as if he were hired help, not their son.
When we first married, Margaret invited us over, painting idyllic scenes of country life: barbecues at sunset, woodland walks, fresh air, and honey from their hives. We fell for it, dreaming of quiet evenings by the fire, of nothing but birdsong. Reality was harsher than we imagined.
The moment we staggered off the coach, dusty and tired from the trip, we were put to work. Tom was handed wellies and sent to patch up the shed. I was dragged into the kitchen to face a tower of dirty dishes from some family gathering. Then came cooking for the whole brood—father-in-law, mother-in-law, neighbours, cousins. A holiday? More like forced labour. We barely caught our breath in two weeks. We managed one rushed barbecue between chores. The forest walks never happened. But worst was Daniel, Tom’s younger brother. While we ran ourselves ragged, he sprawled on the sofa, flipping channels or scrolling on his phone. His route was simple: bed, loo, fridge. And Margaret gazed at him like he was the crown jewels.
By day five, I snapped. That night, when we were finally alone, I asked Tom, “What exactly does your brother *do*? Why does he never lift a finger?” He sighed. Daniel was the “intellectual,” he said. Not meant for manual labour—Mother was saving him for greater things. He was studying, apparently. Though he’d been at it eight years, dropping out, then crawling back. And Tom? Tom was always the one who rushed in to save them—mending fences, splitting logs, fixing leaks. Long before I came along.
That “holiday” was the last straw. I told Tom the rules had to change. Why should he break his back while Daniel lived like royalty? Couldn’t the younger one pitch in? His parents waited months for us to repair the chicken coop or paint the gate—jobs his father could’ve done. But Margaret wouldn’t let her precious Daniel be troubled. He was the “scholar,” after all. He couldn’t be distracted.
Luckily, Tom started thinking. For the first time, he saw how they used him. Enough. No more free labour. We stopped yielding to their demands. When Easter came, despite Margaret’s nagging calls, we didn’t visit. Or the holidays after. And when we finally booked a real holiday—sun, sea, freedom—we told them. Margaret exploded. She shrieked down the phone that we *had* to come, that they needed help. Tom calmly asked with what. Turned out they’d started renovating—and, of course, expected us.
That’s when my husband snapped. He told her straight: “You’ve got another son. Maybe it’s his turn?” She protested—Daniel was busy with studies, no time. But Tom reminded her how *he’d* worked himself raw as a student because “Daniel was just a boy.” And now? Now Daniel was grown but still untouchable. “Mum, you’ve got two sons,” he said finally. “But it feels like one’s yours, and the other’s a stranger.” Then he hung up.
Seconds later, Margaret rang me. Her voice shook with rage. She accused me of poisoning Tom against them, of tearing him from his family. I listened to the tirade for a few seconds, then blocked her number without a word. And I don’t regret it, not one bit.
If Tom were an only child, I’d insist we help. But with two sons—one treated like a king, the other a servant—that’s not justice. I won’t let my husband feel like an outsider in his own family. And if that means cutting ties with his mother, so be it. Our life isn’t their property. We’ve finally chosen ourselves.
