I’ve landed myself in proper trouble, I tell you—I’ve become a slave in my own husband’s family.
In a remote village near York, where the wind carries the scent of freshly cut hay, my life, once full of love, has crumbled into unbearable servitude. My name is Emily, I’m 28, and three years ago, I married William. I thought I’d found my family, but instead, I became a modern-day Cinderella—a servant to my husband, his parents, and his entire kin. My soul screams in despair, and I don’t know how to escape this trap.
### The Love That Blinded Me
When I met William, I was 25. He was from a nearby village—tall, with a kind smile and warm eyes. We met at the county fair, and his simplicity won me over. He spoke of family, of children, of life in the countryside where everyone sticks together. I, a city girl, longed for that cosy existence. A year later, we married, and I moved into his village. Little did I know, that step would seal my fate.
William lived with his parents, Margaret and Geoffrey, in a large farmhouse. His elder brother and his family, along with a stream of relatives, were constant guests. I thought I’d blend into their lives, become part of a big, loving family. But from day one, I understood—they didn’t want love. They wanted labour. *“You’re young and capable, so you’d best pitch in,”* his mother said, and foolishly, I agreed, not realising what I’d signed up for.
### A Servant, Not a Wife
My life became an endless cycle of chores. I wake at five to cook breakfast for the entire household. His father wants porridge, his mother likes scrambled eggs, William demands toast. Then comes cleaning the enormous house, laundry, tending the garden. By midday, relatives drop by, and I cook a feast—roast beef, mash, gravy. Evenings are for washing up, and by night, I collapse, exhausted. No weekends. No rest.
His mother barks orders like a drill sergeant: *“Emily, you’re peeling those potatoes wrong.” “Emily, the floors are still filthy.”* His father says nothing, but his eyes speak volumes: *You don’t belong here.* William’s relatives don’t even greet me—they just sit at the table, waiting to be served. William, my own husband, instead of standing by me, just whispers, *“Don’t argue with Mum, love. She knows best.”* His indifference cuts deeper than any blade. I thought he’d be my shield. Instead, he’s part of the machine grinding me down.
### The Breaking Point
Last week, I snapped. When Margaret yet again criticised my soup, and the relatives left a mountain of dirty dishes, I screamed, *“I’m not your maid! I’m a person too!”* The room went silent. His mother coolly replied, *“If you don’t like it, bugger off back to the city. You’ve grown too soft.”* William stayed quiet, and that broke me. I ran outside, sobbing, realising—I’m trapped. There’s nowhere to go—no home in the city, my own mum too far away. But staying? That means losing myself entirely.
I’ve started noticing how much I’ve changed. Once bright-eyed and lively, now I look haggard—dark circles under my eyes, hands rough from work. My best friend, Charlotte, gasped when she saw me: *“Emily, you look half-dead! Get out of there!”* But how? I loved William. Or did I? His silence, his inaction, have strangled what little love remained. I’m drowning, and no one’s throwing me a lifeline.
### A Secret Plan for Escape
I’ve started dreaming of running away. In secret, I’ve been stashing money—tiny bits saved from the grocery budget. Just enough, perhaps, for a rented flat in the city. But fear grips me—what will Mum say? She was so proud when I married well. What about William? Can I survive alone? And worst of all—I know Margaret and the rest will drag my name through the mud if I leave. Their influence here is absolute.
But yesterday, as I stood at the stove, listening to the same old nitpicking, I made myself a vow: *I will break free.* I’m no Cinderella. I’m young, I’ve got fight left in me, and I *will* find a way. Maybe I’ll work remotely like Charlotte. Maybe I’ll chase my old dream of opening a flower shop. But I *won’t* stay here, where my life is nothing but scrubbing floors and obeying orders.
### A Cry for Freedom
This is my plea for help. I walked into hell when I married a man whose family sees me as unpaid labour. Margaret, Geoffrey, the whole wretched lot—they think I exist to serve them. But I can’t take it anymore. William, the man I loved, has become part of the machine crushing me, and it’s shattered my heart. I don’t know how to leave—but I know I must. At 28, I want to *live*, not just survive. My escape will be my salvation—or my ruin.
