Were Not Your Employees! How My Mother-in-Law Turned Every Weekend Into Pure Drudgery
If someone had told me a year ago that my rare, precious weekends would turn into grueling physical labourleaving every muscle aching and tears stinging my eyesI wouldnt have believed them. But now, its my reality. And the blame lies squarely on my mother-in-law, the formidable Margaret Whitmore, whos decided that since my husband, Thomas, and I live in a high-rise flat with no garden, we must have endless free time. So, naturally, she can rope us into whatever chores she fancies.
Thomas and I have been married just over a year. We had a modest weddingmoney was tight, and in our city, every penny counts. My parents helped us with a small Victorian flat. Naturally, it wasnt in perfect condition, so we planned renovations. Not all at once, but since spring, weve been tackling things bit by bit: a leaky tap here, peeling wallpaper there, new kitchen flooring. Moneys often short, and time even scarcer.
Yet Thomas 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 land like its their lifes work. Their choice, their project. We respect thatbut its not for us.
Margaret, however, saw things differently. The moment she learned we were sitting pretty in the city with no responsibilities, the invitations started rolling in. At first, they were just come for a visit. But soon, every Saturday and Sunday came with clear instructions: Come and help! Not come to relax or take a breakno, it was always work. The moment we stepped through the door, shed thrust a broom, a hoe, or a bucket into our hands. Smile, then straight to the garden.
At first, I thought: *Fine, well pitch in a few times, show were part of the family.* Thomas tried to reason with her: Weve got renovations, hardly any time, stressful jobs. But Margarets stubbornness knows no bounds. You live like royalty in that posh flat! Here, everything falls on *my* shoulders! Excuses about exhaustion didnt faze 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-law. Avoid conflict. But then, on one visit, she shoved a bucket of water and a rag into my hands. While I make the stew, youll mop the entire floorright out to the shed and back. And Thomas can sand down planks; the chicken coop needs fixing. I tried to politely refuse and said I was worn out from the week. She didnt even listen. As if I were some hired hand daring to refuse orders.
By Sunday evening, my body ached. Monday, I overslept for work. My boss was shockedI never took sick days, yet there I was, barely standing. I lied and said I felt ill. All from a relaxing weekend at my mother-in-laws. No joy, no gratitudejust resentment and exhaustion.
The worst part? Wed told her, repeatedly: *We have our own lives, were tired, the flats a building site!* Yet shed call daily: When are you coming? The garden wont tend itself! When we said we couldnt, shed snap, What on earth are you renovating that takes *months*? Building Buckingham Palace?
Her audacity stunned me. Especially when she flat-out said: I counted on you. Youre a womanyou ought to learn to milk cows and grow veg. Itll do you good. I stayed silent, but inside, I was seething. I never wanted country life. I dont need to milk cows or shovel manure.
Thomas stood by me. He was just as fed up. Once, he loved visiting his parentsnow it was pure obligation. He ignored most calls because they were just guilt trips. Every time, I wrestled with myself, scrambling for excuses not to go.
Eventually, I rang my own mum and told her everything. And she *understood*. She said help should be voluntarythat no young family should be treated as free labour. And if we let it slide now, itd only get worse.
Im so tired. Of this double lifecity job and renovations here, farm work there. I just want to sleep in. Spend a weekend with a book or a film, not a shovel and dirt.
Thomas thinks we should lay down an ultimatum: either Margaret stops this, or we cut contact. Harsh? Maybe. But we have our own lives, dreams, plans. We didnt sign up to be permanent farmhands.
And if anyone says, But thats what families do, or You *owe* your parentsI wont argue. But help means being *asked*, not ordered. It means gratitude, not guilt. It means choice, not chores dumped on you.
Maybe winter will cool Margarets fire. And I*finally*can breathe. And remember that weekends are for resting, not servitude.
In the end, Ive learned this: duty shouldnt be endured out of obligation, and love cant be forced through labour. Some boundaries, you have to draw yourselfor else someone else will draw them for you.
