From the moment I got married, I tried to build a good relationship with my mother-in-law. For eight long years, I bit my tongue and kept the peace. Ever since my husband and I moved from the countryside to London, his mum—Margaret Wilkins—would ring us every single weekend with the same cheerful demand: “Come round, we need help!” It was always something: sorting potatoes, digging the garden, or wallpapering her youngest daughter’s flat. And every time, we went. Every time, we obliged.
Now, I’m not eighteen anymore, nor do I have the luxury of a carefree life. I work five days a week, raise two kids, and run my own household. I, too, have a home and a family, and just once a week, I’d like to… breathe.
But Margaret saw us as free labour. If I ever dared hint that I was tired, she’d hit me with the guilt trip: “Well, who else is going to do it?” And it wasn’t even about genuine emergencies—oh no! One weekend, she told me not to come over, only to ring back an hour later with a “crisis”: her daughter Emily needed help wallpapering. Like a fool, I went. And what do you think happened? While I was measuring, pasting, and sweating, “hardworking” Emily was admiring her fresh manicure in the mirror and boiling the kettle for the tenth time.
My husband saw it all. He’s no idiot—he knew exactly what was happening. But saying anything? Out of the question. After all, that’s his mum. So I kept quiet. I endured. Until I didn’t.
Then one weekend, I just… stopped going. No drama, no explanations. I stayed home and said I had my own plans.
Naturally, Margaret wasn’t thrilled. She grilled my husband about why I’d suddenly become so “heartless.” He begged me to come—”just to keep the peace”—but I was done with the performance.
I was tired. At thirty-five, I deserve a weekend of rest, not running errands for people who won’t lift a finger for themselves. I never saw gratitude or respect—only demands.
That Saturday, I finally caught up on my own life. I did the mountain of laundry, cooked a proper meal, and on Sunday—for the first time in years—I lounged on the sofa with a book. Bliss. Until the doorbell rang.
There stood Emily.
No hello, no pleasantries—just straight to the accusations. I was selfish, rude, neglecting the family, ignoring Margaret’s calls. Apparently, I was “obligated” to drop everything because “you’re part of this family now.”
I listened calmly, wished her a nice day, and shut the door.
But the theatrics weren’t over. That evening, Margaret herself showed up on my doorstep, launching into a lecture about how ungrateful I was, how she’d “done everything” for us, and now I’d “got too big for my boots.” As she ranted, all those weekends—scrubbing, cooking, digging, pasting—flashed through my mind.
And here she was, standing in my flat, scolding me like I owed her my entire existence.
That’s when it clicked: enough.
Without a word, I walked to the door, opened it, and gestured for her to leave. Stunned, Margaret muttered something under her breath but went. I sat back down, picked up my book, and exhaled like I’d been holding my breath for years.
This isn’t anger. It’s self-preservation. It’s knowing my time and energy belong to no one but me—and the family I choose.
That night, I slept with a light heart. For the first time in ages, I felt free.
