The “holiday” at my mother-in-law’s ended in a little revolution.
My name’s Emily. I’m thirty-five, married to William, and we’ve got two kids. I’ve always been full of energy—even in nursery, I tried to get the whole group to do morning exercises, in school I was the head girl, and at uni, I was the life of every party. That drive must’ve come from my gran, who I spent every summer with in the countryside. I adored farm life and never shied away from hard work.
That’s how I met William—I organised a park clean-up, and he was one of the few who showed up. We picked up rubbish together, got chatting, then went to the cinema. Things just took off from there. A year later, he proposed, and I said yes without a second thought.
At first, we lived with my parents, then saved up for our first mortgage. Our son came along—the spitting image of his dad—then two years later, our daughter. William worked his socks off but always made time to help at home, never once complaining he was tired. Me? I started burning out. Motherhood isn’t just joy—it’s sleepless nights, exhaustion, endless worry. William noticed and suggested I take the kids to his mum’s in the countryside for a break. Naively, I jumped at the idea, remembering how peaceful Gran’s place was. I thought I’d finally get some rest.
William dropped us off, and his mum welcomed us with tea and scones—even laid out a proper spread. The kids conked out on the sun porch, and she made up a bed for me in her son’s old room. Perfect evening, right? But at the crack of dawn, a shout jolted me awake:
“Still in bed, love? Up you get! The cows won’t milk themselves!”
I checked my phone—5 AM. Dragged myself up, went to wash my face, but she tutted:
“You’ll get dirty anyway—leave it!”
I bit my tongue, changed, and headed to the barn. She grumbled the whole way—”city girl,” “no idea how things work”—but when I grabbed the bucket and milked the cow better than she could, she shut right up. After feeding the animals and scrubbing up, I faced her:
“I don’t mind helping. But let me do things my way.”
“Fine, if you think you know best,” she huffed.
And I got to work. Tidied the veg patch, turned the soil, painted the fence, set up a stall to sell milk and produce to the neighbours, even built a compost heap and started laying pipes—the outdoor loo was long overdue. When we dug the trench, she gasped:
“What in heaven’s name is *that*?”
“You kept saying the water pressure was rubbish. Now you’ll have proper plumbing.”
That’s when she cracked and called William behind my back:
“Will, come get your wife. She’s running me ragged!”
“What’s wrong?”
“You’ll see when you get here.”
I walked in, and she stuffed her phone away, muttering,
“Just saying my prayers, love…”
“Lovely. Then we’ll sterilise jars. I’ve picked the cucumbers—time to pickle. Tomorrow, cherries, then apples. Already sorted it with the neighbour.”
She just sighed. Meanwhile, I kept at it, fixing up the place like my life depended on it.
By week’s end, William arrived. His mum practically threw herself at him:
“Take her home! I can’t keep up! She’s like a whirlwind—never stops! I’m the one needing a rest now!”
William just shrugged.
“Mum, you wanted help. You got it.”
As we left, she nearly cried—not from sadness, more from sheer exhaustion. I promised we’d visit next weekend.
“No rush,” she muttered, slamming the car door.
Then, thinking we couldn’t hear, she turned to the house and mumbled,
“Wish she’d just watch telly like a normal daughter-in-law…”
But I knew—she respected me now. Maybe even feared me a little.
