From the moment I got married, I tried my best to get along with my mother-in-law. For eight years, I put up with everything and kept the peace. After my husband and I moved from the countryside to London, his mum—Margaret Thompson—would call us every single weekend. Always the same thing: “Come round this weekend, we need help!” Sorting potatoes, digging the garden, hanging wallpaper for her youngest daughter. And every time, we went. And every time, we helped.
Meanwhile, I wasn’t some carefree teenager with nothing to do. I work five days a week, raise two kids, and run my own household. I’ve got my own family, my own responsibilities, and sometimes—just once a week—I’d like to… breathe.
But Margaret saw us as free labour. The second I even hinted I was tired, I’d get snapped at: “Well, who else is going to do it?” And fine, if it was something actually important—but half the time, it wasn’t! Once, she told me not to come over, then rang later with a brand-new “urgent” task—helping her daughter, Emily, put up wallpaper. Like an idiot, I went. And guess what? While I was running around with a tape measure and a roller, “hardworking” Emily was busy admiring her fresh manicure in the mirror and boiling the kettle for the tenth time.
My husband saw all of it. He’s not daft; he knew exactly what was happening. But he never said a word—because *she’s his mum*. So I kept quiet. I put up with it. Until one day, I just stopped going. No drama, no explanations. I just stayed home and said I had plans.
Of course, Margaret wasn’t happy. She grilled my husband straight away—why was I suddenly so “heartless”? He begged me to come with him, just “so Mum doesn’t worry.” But I was done playing along.
I was exhausted. At 35, I have every right to rest on my weekends instead of running around after people who won’t lift a finger for themselves. I never saw a shred of gratitude, just demands.
That Saturday, I finally caught up on my own house. Washed everything piled up, cooked a proper meal, and on Sunday—for the first time in ages—I curled up on the sofa with a book. It was bliss. Until the doorbell rang.
Emily was on the doorstep.
No hello, no niceties. Just straight into calling me selfish—how dare I ignore their calls, how I was rude and ungrateful, how I *had* to help because “you’re family now.” I let her finish, wished her a lovely day, and shut the door.
But that wasn’t the end of it. That evening, Margaret herself turned up. Started yelling the second I opened the door—how I was disrespectful, how she’d done *so much* for us, and now I was “getting above myself.” And as she stood there in my flat, berating me, all I could think about was the hours, the weekends, the years I’d spent washing, cooking, digging, scrubbing—for her.
And that’s when it clicked. Enough.
I walked to the door, opened it, and without a word, gestured for her to leave. Stunned, she muttered something under her breath but went. I sat back down, picked up my book, and finally breathed.
This isn’t anger. It’s self-respect. Realising my time and energy belong to *me*—and the only people I owe anything to are myself and my family.
That night, I fell asleep lighter than I had in years. For the first time in forever, I felt free.
