The “holiday” at my mother-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—even in nursery school, I tried to get the whole class to do morning exercises. In secondary school, I was the head girl, the one who rallied everyone, and at university, the life of every event. My drive must have come from my grandmother, with whom I spent every summer in the countryside. I loved village life and was never afraid of hard work.
That’s how I met William. I organized a community cleanup in the local park, and he was one of the few who showed up to help. Together, we picked up rubbish, got chatting, and later went to the cinema. And that was that. A year later, he proposed, and I happily said yes.
At first, we lived with my parents, then saved enough for our first mortgage. Our son came along—the spitting image of his father—and two years later, our daughter. William worked tirelessly but always made time to help at home, never once complaining. Me? I was burning out. Motherhood isn’t just joy—it’s sleepless nights, exhaustion, endless worry. My husband noticed how drained I was and suggested the children and I take a break at his mother’s in the countryside. Foolishly, I was thrilled, remembering my childhood summers. I hoped to finally catch my breath.
William drove us there, and his mother welcomed us with fresh bread and a hearty meal. The children fell asleep on the porch, and she made up a bed for me in her son’s old room. A perfect evening—or so it seemed. But at the crack of dawn, a shrill voice jolted me awake:
“Still lazing about, madam? Up you get! The cows won’t milk themselves!”
I checked my phone—5 a.m. Dragged myself out of bed. Tried to wash my face, but she snapped:
“Plenty of time for that later—you’ll only get filthy anyway!”
I bit my tongue, changed, and followed her to the barn. She muttered the whole way—”city girl,” “soft hands”—but when I grabbed the pail and milked the cow better than she could, she shut up. After feeding the livestock, I washed up and faced her:
“I’m happy to help. But let me do things my way.”
“Do as you like—if you really know how,” she grumbled.
And I did. I weeded the vegetable patch, turned the soil, repainted the fence, set up a proper dairy and produce stand for the neighbors, even dug a compost pit and started laying pipes—the outdoor loo was long overdue for an upgrade. When we excavated the trench, she threw up her hands:
“What in blazes is this?!”
“You’ve complained for years about the water pressure, Mum. Now you’ll have proper plumbing.”
She couldn’t take it anymore. That evening, she sneaked a call to William:
“Will, come fetch your wife. She’s driving me spare!”
“What’s happened?”
“You’ll see when you get here.”
When I walked in, she shoved the phone behind her back and mumbled,
“Just saying my prayers, love.”
“Lovely. But we’ll need to sterilize the jars next. I’ve picked the cucumbers for preserving. Tomorrow, the cherries, then apples. Already arranged it with Mr. Thompson down the lane.”
She sighed deeply. Meanwhile, I carried on, revitalized, fixing up the place with fresh determination.
By the week’s end, William arrived. His mother rushed him:
“Take her home! I can’t take it anymore! She’s like a blasted engine—never stops! I’m the one needing a break now!”
William just shrugged.
“Mum, you wanted help. You got it.”
As we drove off, she dabbed her eyes—not from sorrow, more from sheer exhaustion. I promised to visit again soon.
“No rush,” she muttered, slamming the car door.
Then, under her breath, thinking no one heard, she turned to the house and whispered,
“Bloody hell—wish she’d just watch telly like a normal daughter-in-law.”
But behind it all, I knew one thing: she respected me now. And maybe—just a little—she was afraid.
