My mother-in-law curses me for stealing her son, who refused to cater to her whims anymore.
Three years ago, I first stepped into my husband’s family home, and from the moment I crossed that threshold, I knew—my William had never been allowed happiness there. His mother’s affection was reserved for his younger brother, Oliver, while William was treated as nothing more than an obedient shadow, expected to bow to every demand. Oliver, meanwhile, was coddled like a fragile treasure, never lifting a finger, swaddled in endless excuses.
Agnes and Harold Baker lived in a sprawling cottage on the outskirts of a rural village, surrounded by endless fields and the gentle curve of a river. The place demanded constant upkeep—leaky roofs to patch, fences to mend, vegetable plots to tend—enough work for an entire crew. I counted my blessings that William and I lived far away, in London, a four-hour train ride from their countryside estate. He, too, had always been grateful for that distance. Yet the moment we arrived, duty crashed down on him like a wave, as though he were some hired hand, not a son.
When we first started our life together, Agnes spun tales of idyllic countryside bliss—bonfires under the stars, lazy afternoons by the river, fresh air and homemade cider. Seduced by the fantasy, we spent our first holiday there, dreaming of peace, of quiet evenings by the water, of rest. But reality shattered those dreams the moment we stepped off the train.
Exhausted from the journey, we barely set foot inside before the work began. William was handed a pair of worn-out boots and sent to repair the rotting fence. I was shoved toward a mountain of unwashed dishes and peeling potatoes, remnants of some forgotten gathering. Then came the cooking—endless meals for Agnes, Harold, their friends, distant relatives. Two weeks of supposed relaxation became a gruelling test of endurance. We lit a bonfire once—to barbecue for guests. William never made it to the river. And all the while, Oliver lazed about—sprawled on the sofa, glued to his phone, or snoozing until noon. His life revolved around three places: the couch, the kitchen, the loo. Yet Agnes gazed at him as though he hung the moon.
By the seventh day, I’d had enough. That night, when we were finally alone, I asked William, “Why does Oliver do nothing? What exactly *does* he do, besides sleep?” My husband stared at the ceiling and sighed. “Mum thinks he’s destined for greatness,” he muttered. Too precious for manual labour, too *brilliant* to lift a finger. Never mind that his “studies” had stretched nine years—dropping out, re-enrolling, failing again and again. Meanwhile, William had spent years coming to their rescue—fixing roofs, chopping wood, digging gardens. Until I came along.
That holiday was the breaking point. I told William it was time to shake off the weight of their expectations. Why should he break his back while Oliver lived like a lord? Couldn’t his brother lift a single finger? His parents waited months for our visits just to tackle chores Harold could’ve handled himself. But Agnes guarded Oliver like a priceless heirloom, refusing to let him so much as hold a broom.
To my relief, William listened. For the first time, he saw the truth—how unfairly he’d been used. He agreed: no more playing the saviour. We stopped giving in. When Easter came, despite Agnes’ desperate calls, we stayed in London. We missed Christmas, too. And when we finally booked a proper holiday—real freedom, with beaches and sunshine—we told them. Agnes erupted. She screamed that we’d betrayed the family, that they *needed* us. Calmly, William asked why. Turned out, they’d started renovating the conservatory—and of course, they’d counted on us.
That’s when my husband snapped. “You have another son,” he hissed. “Maybe it’s *his* turn?” Agnes stammered—Oliver was *studying*, he couldn’t be *distracted*. But William reminded her how *he’d* worked himself raw as a student because “Oliver was too young.” And now? Now Oliver was grown, yet still untouchable. “Mum, you have two sons,” he said, his voice thick with pain. “But it’s always felt like one is yours… and the other is just… spare parts.” Then he hung up.
Less than a minute later, Agnes called *me*. Her voice shook with rage and tears. She blamed *me* for poisoning her son’s mind, for tearing their family apart, for stealing William away. I hung up without a word. Blocked her number. And I’ve never regretted it.
Had William been an only child, I’d have been the first to insist we help. But when one son lives like royalty and the other like a footman, that’s not family—that’s servitude. I won’t let my husband feel like a stranger in his own blood. If cutting ties is the price, so be it. Our lives belong to us. And at last, we’ve chosen ourselves.
