My motherinlaw kept demanding that I lend a hand each weekenduntil I finally said enough. Im not a housekeeper, and I wont let anyone dictate my calendar.
From the moment I got married, I did everything I could to get along with my motherinlaw. For eight years I swallowed my pride and took the insults in stride. After my husband and I left the countryside for Lyon, his motherJacquelineBertrandstarted phoning us every week. The same refrain every time: Come over this weekend, we need help! Sometimes it was to sort potatoes, other times to hoe the garden, or to assist her younger daughter with wallpaper. And each time we showed up, like puppets on a string.
But Im no longer in my twenties, and my life isnt a calm river. I work five days a week, raise two kids, and run the household. I deserve a break tooat least a Sunday to catch my breath.
For Jacqueline, however, we were free labor. The moment I hinted at fatigue she snapped, Who else will do it but you? Fine. Yet it was never a genuine emergency. One day she asked me not to go to her house just to send me to help her daughter Élodie repaint the living room. I went, like a fool. Guess what? While I was racing with tape measure and brush, that princess Élodie lounged in front of her mirror, admiring her fresh manicure and constantly reheating the kettle.
My husband saw it all. He wasnt naïve; he knew we were being taken for granted. He never spoke upafter all, she was his mother. So I bit my tongue, until the day
On a Saturday I simply stopped accompanying her. No drama, no explanation. I stayed home, claiming I had other plans.
Naturally Jacqueline was displeased. She immediately questioned her sonwhy had I suddenly become so ungrateful? My husband begged me to go, just to make her happy. But I was fed up with the charade.
I was thirtyfive, entitled to rest, not to serve those who wouldnt lift a finger themselves. I saw no gratitude or respect from them, only endless demands.
That weekend I finally cared for my own home. I washed the pile of laundry, cooked a proper meal, and on Sunday I treated myself to a book, stretched out on the sofa. Pure blissuntil the doorbell rang.
Élodie.
Without a greeting or any courtesy, she unleashed her fury: I was selfish, poorly raised, a traitor to the family. She reminded me of my duty because I was part of it. I listened, wished her a good day, and shut the door.
It didnt stop there. That evening Jacqueline showed up at my place. The moment she crossed the threshold she accused me of ingratitude and contempt, claiming she had given everything. I stared at her as memories of countless hours spent cooking, cleaning, and gardening flooded back.
And there she was, lecturing me.
It was too much.
Without saying a word I opened the door and pointed her toward the exit. Stunned, she muttered something before leaving. I returned to my book and, for the first time in years, breathed freely.
It wasnt angerit was liberation. The certainty that my time belongs only to me. If I owe anything, its to myself and my children.
That night I fell asleep with a light heart. Finally free.
