**How My Mother-in-Law Turns Every Weekend into Pure Torture**
If someone had told me a year ago that my precious, hard-earned weekends would turn into gruelling manual labourleaving my muscles aching and tears in my eyesI wouldnt have believed them. Yet here we are. The culprit? My mother-in-law, the formidable Margaret Whitmore, whos decided that since my husband James and I live in a city flat with no garden, we must have nothing to worry about and all the time in the world. So, naturally, she feels entitled to draft us into service whenever she pleases.
James and I have been married just over a year. We had a modest weddingmoney was tight, and in our part of London, every penny counts. My parents helped us with a small Victorian flat. Of course, it wasnt in the best shape, so we planned renovations. Not all at once, but bit by bit since spring: a leaky tap here, peeling wallpaper there, new flooring in the kitchen. Funds are scarce, and time even scarcer.
Meanwhile, James parents own a countryside cottage in Devon with a sprawling garden, chickens, ducks, a goat, and even two cows. They chose that lifetheir own project, their own commitment. We respect that, but its not for us.
Margaret, however, saw things differently. The moment she realised we lived in comfort, without a garden or responsibilities, she began summoning us regularly. At first, it was just for a visit. But soon, every Saturday and Sunday came with explicit orders: Come and help! Not to relax, not for a breakno, only work. The second we arrived, shed thrust a broom, a spade, or a bucket into our hands. A smile, then straight out to the garden.
At first, I thought: *Fine, a few times wont hurt. Show were part of the family.* James tried reasoning with her: Weve got renovations, no time, stressful jobs. But Margarets stubbornness knows no bounds. Youre living like royalty in the city! Everything here falls on *my* shoulders! Fatigue meant nothing to her. What could you possibly have to do in that tiny flat? We raised younow its your turn to give back!
Honestly, I wanted to be a good daughter-in-law. Avoid conflict. But then, on one visit, she shoved a bucket of water and a rag at me: While I make the soup, youll mop the entire floordown to the shed and back. And James can fix the chicken coop; those boards wont plane themselves. I tried politely refusing, saying I was exhausted from the week. She didnt even listen. As if I were some paid labourer daring to refuse.
By Sunday evening, every muscle screamed. Monday morning, I overslept for work. My boss was stunnedI never took sick days, yet there I was, barely functioning. I lied and said I was ill. All thanks to a relaxing weekend at my mother-in-laws. No joy, no gratitudejust resentment.
The worst part? Wed told her repeatedly: *We have our own lives, were tired, the flats a building site!* Yet shed ring daily: When are you coming? The garden wont tend itself! When we said no, she scoffed: What *are* you renovating that takes months? Building a palace?
Her audacity shocked me. Especially when she outright said: I was counting on you. Youre a womanyou should learn to milk cows and plant vegetables. Itll do you good. I stayed silent, but inside, I seethed. I never wanted the countryside life. I dont *need* to shovel manure.
James stood by me. He was just as fed up. He used to enjoy visitingnow it was pure obligation. He started ignoring her calls, knowing theyd only be guilt trips. Id scramble for excuses not to go, dreading the next demand.
Eventually, I rang my own mother and poured it all out. She understood completely. Help should be voluntary, she said. You cant turn a young family into free labour. If you dont set boundaries now, itll only get worse.
Im so tired. Of this double lifeoffice job and renovations here, farm labour there. I just want to sleep in. Spend a weekend with a book or film, not a shovel and dirt.
James even suggested an ultimatum: Either Margaret stops this, or we cut contact. Harsh? Maybe. But we have our own lives, dreams, priorities. We didnt sign up to be on-call labourers.
And if anyone says, Its normal, You *should* help familyI dont disagree. But help means being *asked*, not ordered. It means gratitude, not guilt. It means *choice*, not chores forced upon you.
Maybe winter will slow Margaret down. And Ifinallycan breathe. Remember that weekends are for *resting*, not servitude.
In the end, Ive learned: Duty shouldnt mean suffering, and love cant be earned through toil. Some boundaries, you have to draw yourselfor others will draw them *for* you.
