We decided to visit my parents nearly six months after the wedding. I knew it would be a challenge, but I never imagined how intense it would be. The moment we stepped through the door, Mum greeted us with a cold stare and words that sent chills down my spine: “This is a working house, not a holiday.” Her voice held a threat, as if we hadnt come home but arrived for forced labour.
My Emily, with her soft hands and city grace, suddenly seemed as fragile as a daisy in the grass. I watched her grip my hand tightly when Mum ordered her to clean the fish. “James, shes your wife, not a maid!” I wanted to shout, but I stayed silent. Silent because I knew every protest would only fan the flames.
Those days in the village became a nightmare. Emily worked until late, her fingers trembling from the cold as she washed dishes with well water. I saw her bite her lip to keep from crying when Mum accused her of laziness again and again. “Youll never be good enough for my son!” rang in my head like a curse. And I stood aside, chained by invisible shackles to the land where Id grown up.
Our dinners were boiled potatoes and fish, prepared by Emily, but Mum never sat with us. She watched from the corner, a shadow waiting for a mistake. At night, I heard Emily crying into her pillow. “Im sorry Im sorry for everything,” I whispered, but the words vanished into the dark.
Back home, I resolved to tell Mum, “Never insult my wife again.” But she only laughed. “Have you forgotten who raised you? Who fed you when you cried from hunger?” Her words cut like a knife.
When we returned to the village, I was ready to fight. Dad had hurt his leg, so I had to tend the cows. Emilys wellies rubbed her feet raw until they bled. Rain turned the fields to mud, and she stumbled after me while I stayed quiet, knowing any show of care would spark fresh cruelty.
And thenthe lamb. Emily couldnt stand the smell, but Mum cooked it daily on purpose. “Eat if you want to be part of this family!” she snapped when Emily pushed the plate away. I grabbed a fork, tore off a piece, and threw it to the floor. “Never again,” I muttered, but it was only the start of the war.
Now, with Emily expecting our daughter, I cant take risks. “Come alone if you want,” I tell Mum over the phone. “But she stays here.” Her silence held an ocean of insults, but for the first time, my heart was calm. I held Emily, and her warm hands reminded me: sometimes, you must protect your family even from those who gave you life.
P.S. The next time Mum called, I turned off the phone. It hurt us both. But sometimes, pain is the only way to wake up.
