We drifted into a night like a fogfilled meadow, the kind that makes you think the sky is a soft, overripe plum. I, Eleanor, and my husband Mark had just finished another twelvehour shift in a glass tower in London, our flat a cramped attic where every penny counted. A year ago we whispered vows in a modest church, the wedding funded by borrowed tea cups and a frugal cousins cash. Our parents had tossed us the keys to a creaking Victorian flat, its plaster damp with history, and we began patching it piece by piecenew taps, fresh wallpaper, laminate in the kitchenalways waiting for the next pound to appear.
Across the fields of the Cotswolds, Margaret Whitaker, Marks mother, lived in a sprawling farmhouse that seemed to swallow the horizon. Chickens clucked like tiny drums, ducks glided on a pond that reflected the moon, a goat nibbled the hedgerow, and two cows loomed like slow, patient statues. The garden was her kingdom, a place where generations had rooted their lives into the soil, a decision she wore like a badge. We admired it from a distance, grateful that our urban life did not require a plow.
But Margaret saw our city comforts as a silent invitation. You have no garden, no chores, she announced one bright morning, so you must come and help. Her words fell like rain, and soon the invitation turned into a command: every Saturday and Sunday we were to arrive with broom, spade, bucket, and a smile stitched onto our faces. The house doors opened, and the garden swelled with the scent of freshly turned earth, demanding our hands.
At first I tried to be a good daughterinlaw, thinking a few hours of labour would earn a nod of approval. Mark tried to temper his mothers expectations, pleading, Were renovating, our jobs are demanding, were exhausted. Margarets resolve was as stubborn as the old oak in her yard. You live like kings in the city! All this work falls on me alone, she declared, her voice echoing through the barns. What have you got to do in that tiny flat? We raised you, now you must give back.
One Saturday she thrust a bucket of water and a rag into my hands, saying, While I stir the soup, you mop the entire floordown to the shed and back again. Mark, youll shave the boards, and the chicken coop needs fixing. I tried to decline, muttering that the week had drained me, but she heard nothing. I felt like a hired hand whose refusal was a betrayal of blood.
By Sunday night every muscle sang a sour note. On Monday I slept through my shift, my boss horrified by the sudden absence. I invented a fever, a vague malaise, and blamed the restful weekend at my motherinlaws. No gratitude, no laughteronly a cold, hard anger simmered inside me.
Each call from Margaret was a summons: When will you finally come? The garden does not weed itself! When we explained the chaos of our flats endless repairs, she retorted, What are you building, a palace? The house will never be finished! Her audacity rose like the smoke from her kitchen hearth. I counted on you, dear. Youre a woman; you must learn to milk cows and plant vegetablesit will make you better. I swallowed the words, the silence inside me boiling like a pot left too long on the stove. I never wanted country life, never wanted to scoop manure or coax milk from a reluctant cow.
Mark stood beside me, his frustration as tangible as the weight of a sack of potatoes. He used to enjoy the drive to the countryside; now it felt like a duty stamped on his heart. He let many of Margarets accusations go unanswered, the ringing phone becoming a phantom. I searched for excuses, for any excuse to stay home, to let the weekend slip away like a dream fading at dawn.
One night, I called my own mother in Manchester, spilling the story into the receiver. She listened, her voice a gentle tide, and reminded me that help should be offered, not demanded, that a young family should never become free labour for a relative. If you let them use you, it will only grow worse, she warned.
I am weary, caught between the glass towers fluorescent glare and the farmhouses muddy fields. I crave a weekend that belongs to a book, a film, a lazy sunrise, not a shovel and a rake. Mark suggested we give Margaret an ultimatum: either she cease her relentless summons, or we sever the ties. It sounds harsh, perhaps, but we have our own lives, our own hopes, and we cannot be conscripted forever.
If anyone whispers, Its normal to help parents, I will not argue. But help means a question, not a command; gratitude, not manipulation; a choice, not a burden. Perhaps the winter will freeze Margarets fervour, and I will finally breathe, remembering that weekends are meant for rest, not for compulsory toil.
In the end, I learned that duties should not be borne out of obligation alone, and love cannot be forced through labour. Boundaries must be drawn by us, lest others draw them for us.
