For as long as I’ve been married, I’ve tried to build a good relationship with my mother-in-law. For eight years, I bit my tongue and smoothed things over. Ever since my husband and I moved from the countryside to London, his mum—Margaret—called us every weekend with the same demand: “Come round and help!” Whether it was sorting potatoes, digging the garden, or hanging wallpaper for her youngest daughter, we always went. And we always helped.
But I’m not eighteen anymore, and my life isn’t carefree. I work five days a week, raise two kids, and keep my own home running. I have a family, responsibilities, and just once a week, I’d like to… breathe.
Margaret treated us like free labour. If I ever hinted I was tired, I’d get the same guilt trip: “Well, who else will do it?” And it wasn’t even for real emergencies—sometimes she’d cancel my visit, then ring back with a new “urgent” task—help her daughter Emily with the wallpaper. Like a fool, I went. And guess what? While I was up a ladder with a paintbrush, “hardworking” Emily admired her fresh manicure in the mirror and kept boiling the kettle.
My husband saw it all. He’s no idiot—he knew we were being taken for granted. But he never said a word. “She’s my mum,” was all I got. So I kept quiet. Until I didn’t.
One weekend, I just stopped going. No argument, no explanation. I stayed home and said I had plans.
Margaret, of course, wasn’t pleased. She grilled my husband—why was I suddenly so “cold”? He pleaded with me to come, “just so Mum won’t worry.” But I was done playing that game.
I’m thirty-five. I deserve a weekend off—not to wait on people who won’t lift a finger for themselves. I never saw gratitude, only expectation.
That Saturday, I finally caught up on my own housework—laundry, cooking, everything. By Sunday, for the first time in years, I lounged on the sofa with a book. Bliss. Until the doorbell rang.
Emily stood there, no hello, no politeness—just accusations. I was selfish, rude, neglecting the family, ignoring calls. She said it was my duty to help—”You’re part of this family now.”
I listened, wished her a good day, and shut the door.
But it didn’t end there. That evening, Margaret herself turned up, firing off insults before she’d even stepped inside. Ingrate. Disrespectful. Thought I was too good for them now. I stared at her, remembering all those hours—weekends spent cooking, scrubbing, digging, fixing—for her. And here she was, in my home, scolding me like a child.
That’s when I knew. Enough.
I walked to the door, opened it, and silently pointed outside. She muttered something, shocked, but left. I sat back down, picked up my book, and breathed for the first time in years.
This wasn’t anger. It was self-respect. Realising my time and energy belong to no one but me—and the family I choose.
That night, I slept light as air. Finally free.
