**Were Not Your Servants! How My Mother-in-Law Turns Every Weekend Into a Chore**
If someone had told me a year ago that my rare, eagerly awaited weekends would turn into backbreaking labour, leaving every muscle aching and tears in my eyes, I wouldnt have believed them. But 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 high-rise flat with no garden, we must have endless free time. And so, 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 city, every penny counts. My parents helped us with a small Victorian flat. Naturally, it wasnt in the best shape, so we planned gradual renovationsnothing all at once, but since spring, weve been tackling things bit by bit: a leaky tap here, peeling wallpaper there, new flooring in the kitchen. Money is often scarce, and time even scarcer.
Meanwhile, James parents own a countryside house with a sprawling garden, chickens, ducks, a goat, and even two cows. They live in a village where many cling to their land, a choice they made for themselves. We respect that, but its not the life we want.
Margaret, however, saw things differently. When she found out we were “sitting pretty in the city with no garden or responsibilities,” she immediately started summoning usfirst under the guise of visits. But soon, every Saturday and Sunday came with clear instructions: “Come and help!” Not to relax or unwindno, just work. The moment we arrived, shed shove a broom, hoe, or bucket into our hands and usher us into the garden.
At first, I thought, *Fine, well help a few times, show were part of the family.* James tried reasoning with her: “Weve got renovations, little time, stressful jobs.” But Margarets stubbornness knows no bounds. “You live like royalty in that flat! Meanwhile, everything here falls on my shoulders!” Excuses about exhaustion didnt faze her. “What could you possibly have to do in your tiny flat? We raised younow its your turn to give back!”
Honestly, I wanted to be a good daughter-in-law. To avoid conflict. But then, on one visit, she thrust a bucket of water and a rag into my hands: “While I make dinner, mop the entire floorall the way to the shed and back. And James can sand those planks; the chicken coop needs fixing.” I tried politely refusing, saying I was worn out from the week. She didnt listen. It was as if I were a paid worker daring to slack off.
By Sunday evening, every muscle ached. On Monday, I overslept for work. My boss was shockedI never took sick days, and suddenly, I was wrecked. I lied and said I felt ill. All this after a supposedly “restful” weekend at the in-laws. No joy, no gratitudejust resentment and exhaustion.
The worst part? James and I had explained repeatedly: *We have our own responsibilities, were tired, the flats a mess!* But Margaret called daily: “When are you coming? The garden wont till itself!” When we said we couldnt, she snapped, “What on earth are you renovating that takes months? Building Buckingham Palace?”
Her audacity stunned me, especially when she flat-out said, “I was counting on you. Youre a womanyou should learn to milk cows and grow vegetables. Itll do you good.” I stayed silent, but inside, I was fuming. I never wanted country life. I dont *need* to milk cows or shovel manure.
James stood by me. He was just as fed up. He used to enjoy visiting his parentsnow it was pure obligation. He often ignored her calls because they were nothing but guilt trips. Every time, I wrestled with excuses to avoid going.
Eventually, I rang my mum and spilled everything. She understood. “Help should be voluntary,” she said. “You cant turn a young family into unpaid labour. If you let this slide, itll only get worse.”
Im so tired. Of this double lifecity job and renovations here, farm labour there. I just want to sleep in. Spend a weekend with a book or a film, not a shovel and dirt.
James seriously thinks we should issue an ultimatum: either Margaret stops this, or we cut contact. Does that sound harsh? Maybe. But we have our own lives, dreams, goals. We didnt sign up to be permanent farmhands.
And if anyone says, “Thats just how it is,” or “You should help your parents”Im not arguing. But help means being *asked*, not ordered. It means gratitude, not guilt. It means having a choice, not being handed a chore list.
Maybe winter will cool Margarets enthusiasm. And Ifinallycan breathe. And remember that weekends are for resting, not servitude.
In the end, Ive learned this: duty shouldnt be endured out of obligation, and love cant be forced through labour. Some boundaries you have to draw yourselfor others will draw them for you.
