The “Holiday” at the Mother-in-Law’s Ended in a Small Revolution
My name is Elizabeth. I’m thirty-five, married to William, and we have two children. I’ve always been spirited and restless—ever since nursery school, I tried to organise exercises for the whole class. At school, I was the head girl and the ringleader, and at university, the life of every gathering. My energy, I suppose, came from my beloved grandmother, with whom I spent every summer in the countryside. I adored rural life and was never afraid of hard work.
That’s how I met William: I decided to organise a clean-up in the city park, and he was one of the few who showed up to help. Together, we gathered rubbish, got talking, and later went to the cinema. And so it all began. A year later, he proposed, and I gladly accepted.
At first, we lived with my parents, then saved enough for our first mortgage. Our son was born—the spitting image of his father—and two years later, our daughter followed. William worked tirelessly but always found time to help at home, never once complaining of fatigue. But I began to burn out. Motherhood isn’t just joy—it’s sleepless nights, exhaustion, endless worries. My husband noticed my weariness and suggested I take the children for a rest at his mother’s in the countryside. Foolishly, I was delighted, remembering how lovely it had been at my grandmother’s. I hoped I might recover a little.
William drove us there, and his mother welcomed us with bread and salt, even laying out a feast. The children fell asleep on the veranda, while she made up a bed for me in her son’s old room. It seemed the perfect evening. But at dawn, a screech woke me:
“Sleeping in, are we, madam? Up with you! The cow won’t milk herself!”
I glanced at my phone—5 a.m. I dragged myself up, wanting to wash, but my mother-in-law snapped:
“You can wash later—you’ll only get dirty again!”
I held my tongue, changed, and headed to the barn. She grumbled the whole way—”city girl,” “soft hands”—but when I took the pail and milked better than she could, she fell silent. After feeding the livestock and washing up, I faced her:
“I don’t mind helping. But let me do things my way.”
“Go on, then, if you know how,” she muttered.
And so I did. I tidied the garden, dug the beds, repainted the fence, arranged to sell milk and vegetables to the neighbours, even built a compost heap and began laying pipes—the outdoor loo had been begging for an upgrade. When we dug the trench, she gasped:
“What in blazes is this?!”
“Mum, you’ve complained for years about the weak water supply. Now there’ll be proper plumbing.”
That was too much. She secretly rang her son:
“William, come fetch your wife. She’s driving me spare!”
“What’s happened?”
“You’ll see when you get here.”
When I walked in, she hid the phone and muttered,
“Just saying my prayers, love…”
“Good. After, we’ll sterilise the jars. I’ve picked the cucumbers, and we’ll can them tomorrow—then the cherries, and apples after. Already arranged it with the neighbour.”
She only sighed. And I, reinvigorated, carried on fixing up the farm.
By week’s end, William arrived. His mother rushed to him:
“Take her away! I can’t take any more! She’s like a machine—never stops! I’m the one needing help now!”
William just shrugged.
“Mum, you wanted help. Well, you’ve got it.”
As we left, she even shed a tear—not from sadness, more from sheer exhaustion. I promised to visit next weekend.
“Don’t hurry back,” she grumbled, slamming the car door.
Then, thinking no one heard, she turned to the house and muttered:
“Wish she’d just watch telly like a proper daughter-in-law…”
But despite it all, I knew—she respected me now. And perhaps, just a little, feared me too.
