I cook for you, clean for you, wash your clothes, and dress you. Why do you hate me so much?
My life in a small village near York had become an endless nightmare. I, Margaret, had spent years under the same roof as my mother-in-law, Edith Thompson, who made it her mission to turn my days into misery. Today, my patience snapped. I asked her the question that had haunted me for years: “Why do you hate me so much?” She gave no answer—only icy silence and that same contemptuous stare. My heart ached with pain, screaming at the injustice.
That day, as usual, I was tidying the house. I’d hoovered and just begun mopping the floors, trying to make everything shine. Then Edith, sitting in her armchair, deliberately crumbled a biscuit onto the freshly cleaned floor. I stood frozen, hardly believing what I’d seen. She had done it on purpose and didn’t bother hiding her spite.
“Mum, why would you do that? I saw you—it was deliberate!” I cried, fighting back tears.
She looked at me with scorn and scoffed, “So? Clean it again. It won’t kill you.”
With a smug smirk, she turned back to her worn-out newspaper, the same one she’d read a dozen times. Swallowing my anger, I fetched the dustpan and brush, sweeping up the crumbs. But inside, I was boiling. I retreated to the garden—digging in the soil calmed me, if only a little. Yet the sting of her words and actions gnawed at me like poison.
“Why do you hate me so much?” I finally demanded later, standing before her. “What have I ever done to deserve this? I cook for you, wash your clothes, keep the house spotless! My daughter, Emily, even helps you! Why?”
She didn’t turn. Not a word, not even a glance—just cold indifference. I sobbed, unable to hold back any longer. Finishing the cleaning, I moved on to the laundry, but tears still streamed down my face. My life had become an unending cycle of humiliation, and I didn’t know how to escape it.
My husband—Emily’s father—had died years ago. She was only eight then. Right after the funeral, Edith declared, “You’ll stay with me. And don’t even think of leaving. I won’t have the village gossip saying I threw you out.”
I agreed, because where else could I go? My own parents’ house was already crowded—my sister lived there with her two children, leaving no room for Emily and me. Foolishly, I’d hoped time might soften Edith, that we’d find common ground. But no miracle came. In public, she played the perfect grandmother; in private, she tormented me. She never missed a chance to remind me of my place.
“You’re worthless. What man would want you, saddled with a child? You’ll live here with Emily, and when I die, you’ll get this house. But if you step out of line, I’ll leave it to my nephews, and you’ll have nothing!”
I feared her threats and endured. I did everything to give Emily a good life. Meanwhile, Edith, now in her nineties, thrived. She was in rude health, spending every penny of her pension on herself, demanding I buy her the finest foods and treats. I’d long realised my mistake in staying. Years of degradation had broken me.
Emily is finishing university now, soon to marry a kind young man. They’ll make a home together, and I pray her life will be happy. But what of me? What of the years I’ve wasted, bent beneath Edith’s cruelty? I gave everything for my daughter and my mother-in-law, and in return, I got scorn and loneliness. How do I find the strength to break free from this torment?
