In a quiet town near Manchester, where morning mists cling to old brick houses, my life at 27 has become an endless cycle of serving others. My name is Emily, I’m married to Thomas, and in a few months, we’ll welcome our first child. Yet my fragile world is crumbling 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 what should have been a blessing has become my prison.
A Love That Became a Trap
When I met Thomas at 23, he was kind, with a gentle smile and dreams of building 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 was temporary—that we’d soon have our own home. Instead, I found myself trapped in a place where my only purpose was to cook, clean, and keep quiet.
The flat is large, but it feels cramped with people. Margaret lives with us, and Thomas’s aunt, Claire, visits nearly every day with her two spoiled children. They act as if the place is theirs, and I’m just part of the furniture. From the start, my mother-in-law made it clear: “Emily, you’re young—make yourself useful.” I thought if I tried hard enough, I’d earn their affection. Instead, their indifference only grew.
Servitude Within These Walls
My days are an endless loop of chores. Each morning, I scrub the floors because Margaret hates dust. Then I cook breakfast for everyone—porridge for her, scrambled eggs for Thomas, and when Claire arrives with the children, pancakes or sandwiches too. By afternoon, I’m peeling potatoes, making stew, frying cutlets, because “guests are hungry.” By evening, a mountain of dishes waits, along with fresh orders: “Emily, peel more veg for tomorrow.” My pregnancy, my nausea, my aching feet—none of it matters.
Margaret barks commands like a drill sergeant: “The soup’s too salty,” “The curtains weren’t washed properly.” Claire chimes in: “Emily, mind the kids, I’m busy.” Her children, loud and spoiled, scatter toys and stain the sofa—yet I’m the one cleaning up. Thomas, instead of standing up for me, just says, “Mum, don’t argue with Gran, she’s getting on.” His words cut deeper than their demands. I feel like a servant in a home that will never be mine.
Pregnancy Under Siege
I’m six months along, and the toll is real. Nausea, back pain, exhaustion—yet my mother-in-law scoffs, “In my day, women worked till the baby came.” Claire laughs, “Oh, Emily, don’t be dramatic—pregnancy isn’t an illness.” Their cruelty chills me. I try not to panic, but the stress, the sleepless nights, the endless labour—how can it not harm the baby? Yesterday, I nearly fainted carrying a bucket of water, and no one even asked if I was alright.
I begged Thomas for help. Through tears, I said, “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 don’t want my child born into a house where its mother is treated like a maid. I want peace. Care. Instead, I get scoldings and dirty plates.
The Final Straw
Yesterday, Margaret snapped, “Emily, be grateful you live here. Work harder, or you’ll be out.” Claire nodded: “A wife should pull her weight, not complain.” I stood there, clutching a rag, feeling something inside me break. My child, my health, my life—none of it mattered to them. Thomas stayed silent, as always, and that was the final blow. I won’t be their cook, their cleaner, their shadow.
I’ve decided to leave. I’ll save up, find a rented room—even a tiny one—because I can’t bring my baby into this nightmare. My friend Sophie says, “Take Thomas and run—before it’s too late.” But what if he chooses his family over me? What if I’m left alone? Fear grips me, but I know I can’t endure this much longer.
This is my cry for dignity. Margaret, Claire, their endless demands—they’re destroying me. Thomas, the man I love, has become part of the machine, and it breaks my heart. My child deserves a mother who smiles, not one who cries over chores. At 27, I want to live, not just survive. Leaving won’t be easy, but I’ll do it—for myself and my baby.
I don’t know if Thomas will come. I don’t know where I’ll find the strength. But I do know this: I won’t stay in a home where my pregnancy is an inconvenience. Let Margaret keep her flat. Let Claire find another maid. I’m Emily, and I’ll choose freedom—even if it shatters my heart along the way.
Sometimes, the hardest choice is also the one that saves us.
