Were not your hired help! How my motherinlaw turned every weekend into hard labour
If someone had told me a year ago that my rare, eagerly awaited weekends would turn into backbreaking work that left every muscle aching and tears in my eyes, I would have laughed it off. Yet thats the reality now, and the culprit is my motherinlaw, the ironwilled Margaret Turner. She decided that because my husband James and I live in a tower block in London with no garden of our own, we have all the time in the world, so she could rope us in whenever she pleased.
James and I have been married just over a year. Our wedding was modest money was tight, and every penny counts in our city. My parents helped us move into a small period flat. It wasnt in the best shape, so we set about renovating it bit by bit: a new tap here, fresh wallpaper there, new flooring in the kitchen. Money often ran short, and time was even scarcer.
Jamess parents own a farmhouse in Kent with a large garden, a flock of chickens, a pair of ducks, a goat and even two cows. They live on a plot that has been in the family since before the war, a project they chose for themselves. We respect that, but its not our world.
Margaret saw it differently. When she learned that we sit comfortably in the city, gardenfree and without chores, she started inviting us over regularly. At first it was just a dropby. Soon, however, every Saturday and Sunday came with a clear command: Come and help! Not to relax or for a change of scenery, but to work. The moment we crossed the threshold, she handed us brooms, a spade or a bucket and said, Smile and get to it.
At first I thought, fine, well pitch in a few times and show were part of the family. James tried to temper his mother, saying, Were busy with renovations, long hours, stressful jobs. Margarets stubbornness knew no bounds. You live like royalty in the city! Everything here falls on me alone! She dismissed any talk of fatigue. What can you possibly do in that cramped flat? We raised you, now you owe us!
I wanted to be a good daughterinlaw and avoid a fight. Then one visit she thrust a bucket of water and a rag into my hands: While Im making soup, youll mop the whole floor up to the shed and back. James, youll plane some boards; the chicken coop needs fixing. I tried to decline, saying I was exhausted from the week, but she wouldnt hear a word. It was as if I were a paid hand who dared to refuse.
By Sunday night every muscle ached. On Monday I called in sick. My boss was stunned Id never taken a day off before, and suddenly I was flat on my back. I fibbed that I felt unwell, all because of a restful weekend at my motherinlaws. There was no joy, no gratitude only anger and disappointment.
The worst part was that James and I repeatedly explained we had our own responsibilities, we were tired, the flat was still a construction site. Margaret called every day: When are you coming? The garden wont dig itself! When we said it wasnt possible, she replied, What are you building that you cant finish in months? Are you planning a palace? Her audacity shocked me, especially when she said, I was counting on you. Youre a woman; you should learn to milk cows and plant vegetables itll do you good. I stayed silent, but inside I boiled.
James stood by me. He was just as fed up with her demands. He used to enjoy visiting his parents; now he went only out of duty. He let many of her calls go unanswered because they were full of accusations. Each time I wrestled with myself, looking for an excuse not to go back.
Eventually I phoned my own mother and poured out everything. She understood instantly. She reminded me that help should be voluntary, that a young couple shouldnt be turned into free labour, and that if we let it continue it would only get worse.
Im exhausted from living a double life a city job and a flat under renovation on one hand, country work on the other. All I want is to sleep in, to spend a weekend with a book or a film, not a shovel and mud.
James suggested we give Margaret an ultimatum: either she stops turning us into weekend laborers, or we cut ties. It sounds harsh, perhaps, but we have our own lives, dreams and goals. We never signed up to be permanent farmhands.
If anyone says, Thats normal, Children must help their parents, I wont argue. But assistance means being asked, not ordered. It means gratitude, not manipulation. It means a choice, not a load thrust upon you.
Perhaps winter will cool Margarets zeal, and at last I can breathe easy, remembering that weekends exist for rest, not forced duty.
In the end I learned that obligations should never be shouldered out of guilt, and love cannot be bought with labour. You must draw your own boundaries, or else others will draw them for you.
