The “Holiday” at Mum-in-Law’s Ended in a Small Revolution
My name is Emily. I’m thirty-five, married to William, and we have two children. I’ve always been restless and full of energy—ever since nursery school, where I tried to get the whole class to do morning exercises. In school, I was the class captain, the one who started things, and at university, the life of every party. My spirit, I think, came from my grandmother, whose countryside cottage I visited every summer. I loved farm life and was never afraid of hard work.
That’s how I met William—I organised a clean-up day at the local park, and he was one of the few who actually turned up to help. We collected rubbish together, got talking, and later went to the cinema. Everything just fell into place. A year later, he proposed, and I said yes without hesitation.
At first, we lived with my parents, then saved up for our first mortgage. Our son was born—the spitting image of his father—and two years later, our daughter arrived. William worked tirelessly, always making time to help at home, never once complaining. But I was burning out. Motherhood isn’t just joy—it’s sleepless nights, exhaustion, endless worries. He noticed how worn out I was and suggested the children and I go stay with his mother in the countryside. Naively, I agreed, remembering how peaceful it had been at Gran’s. I hoped I’d finally get some rest.
William drove us there, and his mother greeted us with tea and cake, even laid out a proper spread. The children fell asleep in the sunroom, and she made up a bed for me in her son’s old room. It should’ve been perfect. But at dawn, a shrill voice jolted me awake:
“Still lazing about, are we? Up with you! The cow won’t milk herself!”
I checked my phone—5 a.m. Dragged myself out of bed. Went to wash my face, but she snapped:
“What’s the point? You’ll be filthy again in five minutes!”
I bit my tongue, changed, and followed her to the barn. She muttered 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 up. After feeding all the animals, I washed my hands and faced her.
“I don’t mind helping. But let me do things my way.”
“Do what you like, since you know best,” she grumbled.
And I did. I weeded the garden, turned the soil, painted the fence, set up a proper milk and veg stall for the neighbours, even dug a compost pit and started laying pipes—that ancient outdoor loo was long overdue for replacement. When they dug the trench, she threw up her hands:
“What in heaven’s name is this?!”
“You’ve been complaining about the water pressure, Mum. Now you’ll have proper plumbing.”
That’s when she cracked and called William in secret:
“Will, come get your wife. She’s running me ragged!”
“What’s happened?”
“You’ll see when you get here.”
When I walked in, she shoved the phone away and mumbled,
“Just saying my prayers, love…”
“Good. But after, you’re sterilising jars. I’ve picked the cucumbers—we’re making pickles. Tomorrow, the cherries, then the apples. Already sorted it with the neighbour.”
She just sighed. And I kept going, fixing up the whole farm like a woman possessed.
By week’s end, William arrived. His mother rushed to him:
“Take her away! I can’t take it anymore! She’s like a whirlwind—never stops! I’m meant to be helping *her*, but I’m the one needing a break!”
He could only shrug.
“Mum, you wanted help. You got it.”
As we drove off, she even teared up—not from sadness, more from sheer exhaustion. I promised we’d visit next weekend.
“No rush,” she muttered, slamming the car door.
Then, thinking no one could hear, she turned to the house and whispered,
“Wish she’d just sit and watch telly like a normal daughter-in-law…”
But despite it all, I knew—she respected me now. And maybe, just a little… feared me.
