Listen, love, you wont believe the nightmare my motherinlaw has turned our weekends into.
If someone had told me a year ago that my precious, hardwon weekends would end up as backbreaking labour, muscles screaming and eyes watering, Id have laughed it off. But now its my reality, and the culprit is my motherinlaw, the ironwilled Denise Thompson. She decided that because my husband Mark and I live in a flat in a highrise in Manchester and have no garden of our own, weve got all the time in the world to be roped into her endless todo list.
Mark and I have been married just over a year now. We had a modest ceremony money was tight, and every penny counted in our neighbourhood. My parents helped us pull a small periodproperty together. It wasnt in the best shape, so weve been chipping away at renovations bit by bit since spring: swapping out a leaky tap here, hanging new wallpaper there, laying fresh flooring in the kitchen. Cash is always short, and time is even scarcer.
Now Marks parents own a farmhouse out in the Cotswolds with a huge garden, chickens, ducks, a goat and even two cows. They live in a village where everyone still hangs on to the old farming ways. Its their own project, and we respect that, but its not something we signed up for.
Denise saw it differently. The moment she heard we were just coasting in the city, no garden, no chores, she started inviting us over all the time. At first it was just come over for a cuppa. Then, by the next Saturday and Sunday, the invitation turned into a command: Come and help! Not relax or have a breather, but work. The minute we stepped through the front door shed hand us a broom, a spade or a bucket and plaster a grin on her face as if wed just arrived for a holiday.
At first I thought, Alright, well lend a hand now and then, show were part of the family. Mark tried to set some boundaries, saying, Weve got renovations, long hours at the office. Denises stubbornness knew no limit. Youre living like royalty in the city! Everything falls on me here! She didnt care about fatigue. What have you got to do in that tiny flat of yours? We raised you, now you owe us something!
I wanted to be a good daughterinlaw, avoid any drama. Then one afternoon she shoved a bucket of water and a rag into my hands: While Im cooking, you mop the whole floor all the way to the shed and back. And Mark, youre on the woodwork; the chicken coop needs fixing. I tried to politely decline, saying I was wiped out from the week, but she wouldnt hear it. It was as if I were a paid hand who could simply say no.
By Sunday night every muscle ached. On Monday I called in sick. My boss was stunned Id never missed a day before. I blamed a stomach bug, but the truth was a relaxing weekend with Denise that left me exhausted, angry and completely drained.
The worst part was how repeatedly we tried to explain that we had our own responsibilities, that the flat was still a construction site. Denise would ring every day: When are you coming? The garden wont weed itself! When we said it just wasnt possible, she snapped back, What are you building in that flat, a castle? Her audacity shocked me, especially when she said flatout, I expected you to learn how to milk cows and grow veg, youre a woman after all thatll make you useful. I kept quiet, but inside I was boiling. I never wanted a life on a farm. I have no desire to milk cows or scoop manure.
Mark stood by me. He was fed up with her endless demands too. He used to love driving up to his parents place; now it felt like a chore. He started ignoring her calls because they were just accusations. Every time I tried to find an excuse not to go back, I felt torn.
One night I rang my mum and poured everything out. She got it straight away. Help should be offered, not demanded. Youre not a free labour force for a young couple. She warned that if we kept letting her walk all over us, it would only get worse.
Im so knackered juggling a city job, the flat renovation, and farm chores every weekend. I just want a proper liein, a quiet weekend with a book or a film, not a shovel and mud.
Mark thinks we need an ultimatum: either Denise stops turning our weekends into a torment, or we cut her off. Sounds harsh? Maybe. But we have our own lives, dreams, goals. We didnt sign up to be permanent farmhands.
And if anyone says, Thats normal, youve got to help your parents, Ill say no. Help means being asked, not ordered. It means gratitude, not manipulation. It means you have a choice, not a pile of tasks shoved on you.
Maybe the winter will finally dampen Denises zeal, and Ill get a breath of fresh air. Ill remember that weekends are for resting, not for forced labour.
What Ive learned is this: you shouldnt bear duties out of blind obligation, and love cant be bought with work. You have to draw your own boundaries, or else someone else will do it for you.
