How My Mother-in-Law Turned Weekends into a Chore
If someone had told me a year ago that my precious weekends would turn into backbreaking laborleaving every muscle aching and tears in my eyesI wouldnt have believed them. Yet here we are. The culprit? My mother-in-law, the formidable Margaret Whitmore, who decided that since my husband, James, and I live in a high-rise flat with no garden, we must have endless free time. Naturally, that meant we were fair game for her endless demands.
James and I married just over a year ago. We had a modest weddingmoney was tight, and in our London neighbourhood, every penny counts. My parents helped us with a small Victorian flat. It wasnt in the best shape, so we planned gradual renovationsa tap here, wallpaper there, a new kitchen floor. Funds were scarce, and time even scarcer.
But James parents own a countryside cottage with a sprawling garden, chickens, ducks, a goat, and even two cows. They live in a rural village where many cling to their landtheir choice, their project. We respect that, but its not our life.
Margaret, however, disagreed. When she learned we were city folk with no garden or responsibilities, she began summoning us regularly. At first, it was just come for a visit. Soon, every Saturday and Sunday came with instructions: Come and help! Not to relax or unwindjust work. The moment we arrived, shed hand us a broom, hoe, or bucket, smiling as she shooed us into the garden.
At first, I thought, *Fine, well help a few times, show were part of the family.* James tried reasoning: Weve got renovations, busy jobs, no time. But Margarets stubbornness knew no bounds. You live like kings in that flat! Here, everythings on my shoulders! Fatigue meant nothing to her. What could you possibly have to do in that tiny place? We raised younow its your turn to give back!
Honestly, I wanted to be a good daughter-in-lawavoid conflict. But then, on one visit, she shoved a bucket and cloth into my hands. While I make lunch, mop the entire floordown to the shed and back. And James can sand woodthe chicken coop needs fixing. I tried politely refusing, saying I was exhausted from the week. She didnt listen. As if I were hired help daring to slack off.
By Sunday night, every muscle throbbed. Monday, I overslept. My boss was shockedI never missed workbut there I was, burnt out after a relaxing weekend at Margarets. No gratitude, just resentment.
The worst part? Wed explained repeatedly: *We have our own lives, were tired, the flats a mess!* Yet she called daily: When are you coming? The garden wont tend itself! When we said no, she scoffed, What *are* you renovating that takes months? Building Buckingham Palace?
Her audacity stunned meespecially when she said plainly, I counted on you. Youre a womanyou should learn to milk cows and plant veg. Itll do you good. I stayed silent, but inside, I seethed. I never wanted farm life. I dont *need* to shovel manure.
James stood by me. He was just as fed up. Once, he loved visitingnow it was duty. He ignored calls because they were just guilt trips. Every time, I wrestled with excuses not to go.
Finally, I rang my mum and confessed. She understood. Help should be voluntary, she said. You cant turn a young family into free labour. Give an inch, and theyll take a mile.
Im exhaustedjuggling city work, flat renovations, and farm chores. I just want to sleep in. Spend a weekend with a book or film, not a shovel and dirt.
James thinks we must set an ultimatum: either Margaret stops the demands, or we cut ties. Harsh? Maybe. But weve got our own lives, dreams, goals. We didnt sign up for servitude.
And if anyone says, Its normalyou *owe* your parents, I wont argue. But help means being *asked*, not ordered. It means gratitude, not guilt. Its a choice, not an obligation.
Maybe winter will curb Margarets zeal. And Ifinallycan breathe. Remembering weekends are for rest, not forced labour.
In the end, I learned: duty shouldnt be endured out of guilt, and love cant be forced through work. Some boundaries you must draw yourselfor others will draw them for you.
