In a quiet little town near Brighton, where morning mists wrap around old cottages like a soggy blanket, my life at 27 has become a never-ending loop of serving other people’s whims. My name’s Emily, married to James, and in a few months, we’ll have a baby. But my fragile, pregnancy-glowing world is crumbling under the weight of my mother-in-law and her family, who’ve decided I’m their unpaid housekeeper. We live in a three-bedroom flat owned by James’s gran, Margaret, and what was meant to be a blessing now feels like a curse.
**Love That Led to a Trap**
I met James when I was 23. He was sweet, with a dimpled smile and grand plans for a family. We married after a year, and I was over the moon. His gran, Margaret, offered us her spacious flat while we got on our feet. I agreed, thinking it’d be temporary—just until we saved up. Instead, I walked into a trap where my job description includes scrubbing, cooking, and keeping my mouth shut.
The flat’s big, but it’s crowded with people. Margaret lives with us, and James’s aunt, Diane, drops by nearly every day with her two kids. They treat the place like it’s theirs and me like part of the furniture. From day one, Margaret made it clear: “Emily, you’re young—make yourself useful.” I thought if I worked hard enough, they’d appreciate me. Instead, their demands only grew.
**Domestic Prison**
My days are a blur of hoovering and meal prep. I mop first thing because Margaret can’t stand a speck of dust. Then it’s breakfast for everyone: porridge for her, scrambled eggs for James, and when Diane swoops in—pancakes or toast for the kids. By afternoon, I’m chopping veg for a roast or frying sausages because “guests are hungry.” Evenings mean a mountain of dishes and orders like, “Emily, peel potatoes for tomorrow.” My pregnancy, my nausea, my aching feet? Irrelevant.
Margaret critiques like a drill sergeant: “The soup’s too salty,” “The curtains aren’t pressed right.” Diane chimes in: “Emily, mind the kids for a bit—I’m busy.” Her little terrors scatter toys and smear jam on the sofa, and I clean up because “family helps family.” James, instead of defending me, just says, “Mum, don’t argue with Gran—she’s getting on.” It stings. I feel like a servant in a house that’ll never be mine.
**Pregnancy on the Back Burner**
I’m six months along, and “delicate condition” doesn’t begin to cover it. The nausea won’t quit, my back’s killing me, and exhaustion hits like a freight train. But Margaret just tuts: “In my day, women worked till they dropped.” Diane laughs: “Oh, Emily, don’t be dramatic—pregnancy isn’t an illness.” Their indifference is crushing. I worry for the baby—stress, sleepless nights, endless work can’t be good. Yesterday, I nearly slipped hauling a bucket of water. No one even asked if I was alright.
I tried talking to James. Tears streaming, I whispered, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m exhausted.” He hugged me but said, “Gran gave us the flat. Just hang in there.” Hang in there? For how long? I won’t raise my child in a house where I’m the help. I want peace, care, a home—not nagging and dirty plates.
**The Last Straw**
Yesterday, Margaret snapped: “Emily, you should be grateful we took you in. Keep working, or you’ll be out.” Diane backed her up: “A wife pulls her weight—no whinging.” I stood there, clutching a dishcloth, feeling something inside me snap. My baby, my health, my life—none of it matters to them. James, as usual, stayed silent, and that broke me. I won’t be their skivvy anymore.
I’ve decided to leave. I’ll save up, find a rented room—even a tiny bedsit if I must. I won’t bring my baby into this misery. My best mate, Sophie, says, “Take James and run.” But what if he chooses her over me? What if I’m alone with a newborn? Fear grips me, but I know I can’t survive months more of this.
**A Scream into the Void**
This is my scream for dignity. Margaret, Diane, their endless demands—they’re suffocating me. James, the man I love, has become part of the machine, and it’s breaking my heart. My child deserves a mum who smiles, not one crying over piled-up dishes. At 27, I want to live, not just survive. Leaving will be hard, but I’ll do it—for me and my baby.
I don’t know how to convince James or where I’ll find the strength. But one thing’s clear: I won’t stay in this house where my pregnancy is just an inconvenience. Let Margaret keep her flat. Let Diane find another maid. I’m Emily, and I’ll choose freedom—even if it shatters my heart.
