In a small town near Sheffield, where morning mists cling to old brick houses, my life at 27 has become an endless cycle of serving others. My name is Emily, married to Thomas, and in a few months, we’ll welcome our baby. But my fragile world crumbles under the weight of my mother-in-law and her family, who treat me as nothing more than unpaid help. We live in a three-bedroom flat owned by Thomas’s grandmother, and it’s become my prison.
**Love That Led to a Trap**
When I met Thomas at 23, he was kind, with a gentle smile and dreams of a family. We married a year later, and I was over the moon. His grandmother, Margaret, offered us her spacious flat while we got on our feet. I agreed, thinking it temporary, that we’d build our own life. Instead, I stepped into a trap where my role is to clean, cook, and stay silent.
The flat is large, but crowded with people. Margaret lives with us, and Thomas’s aunt, Claire, visits nearly every day with her two children. They act as if the flat belongs to them, and I’m just part of the furniture. From day one, my mother-in-law made it clear: *”Emily, you’re young—make yourself useful.”* I tried to please them, to earn their affection, but their indifference and demands only grow.
**Slavery Behind Four Walls**
My life is an endless loop of scrubbing and cooking. Each morning, I mop the floors because Margaret can’t stand dust. Then I make breakfast for everyone: porridge for her, fried eggs for Thomas, and when Claire arrives with the kids, pancakes or sandwiches too. By midday, I’m chopping vegetables, cooking roast dinners, or frying sausages because “guests are hungry.” Evenings mean washing up and new orders: *”Emily, peel the potatoes for tomorrow.”* My pregnancy, my nausea, my aching feet—none of it matters to them.
Margaret barks commands like a general: *”The soup’s too salty,”* or *”You didn’t iron the curtains properly.”* Claire chimes in: *”Emily, watch my kids, I’m busy.”* Her spoiled, rowdy children scatter toys and stain the sofa, but I clean up because *”family helps family.”* Thomas, instead of defending me, just says, *”Mum, don’t argue with Gran, she’s getting on.”* His words feel like betrayal. I’m a servant in a home that’ll never be mine.
**Pregnancy Under Fire**
I’m six months along, and my fragile state is no exaggeration. Morning sickness gnaws at me, my back aches, and exhaustion weighs me down. But Margaret just scowls: *”In my day, women worked till they went into labour.”* Claire snickers: *”Oh, Emily, stop fussing—pregnancy isn’t an illness.”* Their coldness cuts deep. I worry for my baby—the stress, sleepless nights, and endless chores can’t be good. Yesterday, I nearly fainted carrying a bucket of water, but no one even asked if I was alright.
I tried talking to Thomas. Tears streamed as I whispered, *”I can’t do this anymore. I’m pregnant, I’m exhausted.”* He hugged me but replied, *”Gran gave us a roof. Just hang on.”* Hang on? For how long? I won’t let my child be born into a house where its mother is a maid. I want peace, care, kindness—but all I get are jibes and dirty dishes.
**The Final Straw**
Yesterday, Margaret snapped, *”Emily, you should be grateful to live here. Keep working, or you’re out.”* Claire added, *”A wife pulls her weight—stop whinging.”* I stood there, clutching a dishcloth, feeling something inside me shatter. My child, my health, my life—they mean nothing to them. Thomas, as always, stayed silent, and that broke me completely. I won’t be their cleaner, their cook, their shadow.
I’ve decided to leave. I’ll save up, find a rented room—even if it’s a tiny bedsit. I refuse to give birth in this hell. My friend Katie says, *”Take Thomas and run before it’s too late.”* But what if he chooses his grandmother over me? What if I end up alone with a baby? Fear paralyzes me, but I know I can’t endure months more of this slavery.
**My Cry for Help**
This story is my scream for dignity. Margaret, Claire, their endless demands are crushing me. Thomas, the man I love, has become part of the machine, and it’s tearing me apart. My child deserves a mother who smiles, not one crying over a sink. At 27, I want to live, not just survive. Even if escape is hard, I’ll do it—for myself and my baby.
I don’t know how to convince Thomas, where I’ll find the strength. But I know one thing: I won’t stay in this house where my pregnancy is just a nuisance. Let Margaret keep her flat. Let Claire find another maid. I’m Emily, and I’ll choose freedom—even if it breaks my heart.
