**Were Not Your Staff! How My Mother-in-Law Turned Every Weekend Into Hard Labour**
If someone had told me a year ago that my precious, rare weekends would turn into gruelling physical labourcomplete with aching muscles and tears of exhaustionId have laughed in their face. But here we are. The culprit? My formidable mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, whos decided that because my husband Oliver and I live in a high-rise flat with no garden, we must be drowning in free time. Naturally, that means were on call for her every whim.
Oliver and I have been married just over a year. We had a modest weddingmoney was tight, and in our corner of London, every penny counts. My parents helped us with a small Victorian flat, which, charming as it was, needed work. Weve been tackling it bit by bit since spring: a leaky tap here, some peeling wallpaper there, new kitchen flooring when we can afford it. Time and cash are always in short supply.
Meanwhile, Olivers parents own a countryside cottage in the Cotswolds with a sprawling garden, chickens, ducks, andbecause why not?two goats. They chose this life, and good for them. But its not for us.
Margaret, however, saw things differently. The moment she realised we were cosy flat-dwellers with no outdoor chores, the invitations started rolling in. At first, it was just pop round for a visit. Soon, every Saturday and Sunday came with a to-do list: Come and lend a hand! Not to relax, mind youto work. The second we arrived, shed shove a broom, spade, or bucket into our hands and usher us outside with a smile.
At first, I played along. A bit of gardening wouldnt kill us, and it was nice to feel involved. Oliver tried to reason with her: Were renovating, were knackered from work, weve got no time. But Margarets stubbornness is legendary. You live like royalty in that posh flat! Meanwhile, Im holding the fort here alone! Fatigue was no excuse. What could you possibly have to do in that tiny place? We raised younow its payback!
Honestly, I tried to be the perfect daughter-in-law. No drama, no arguments. Then came the day she handed me a mop and bucket: While I make lunch, scrub the floorsright down to the shed and back. And Oliver can fix the chicken coop. I politely mentioned I was shattered from the week. She didnt even blink. It was as if Id just refused a direct order from the Queen.
By Sunday evening, every muscle screamed. Monday morning, I overslept for work. My boss was stunnedI never miss a day. I lied and said I was ill. All thanks to a relaxing weekend at Mother-in-Law HQ. No gratitude, no joyjust resentment.
The worst part? Wed explained a dozen times: weve got our own lives, were exhausted, the flats a building site! Yet Margarets daily calls continued: When are you coming? The garden wont weed itself! When we said we couldnt make it, she scoffed: What on earth are you renovating? Buckingham Palace?
Her audacity hit peak levels when she announced, I was counting on you. Youre a womanyou should learn to milk goats and grow veg. Itll do you good. I bit my tongue, but inside? Nuclear. I never signed up for farm life.
Oliver backed me up. He was just as fed up. He used to enjoy visitingnow its pure obligation. He ignores her calls because theyre just guilt trips. Every weekend, I scramble for excuses not to go.
Eventually, I rang my mum and spilled everything. She got it instantly. Help should be voluntary, she said. You cant turn a young couple into unpaid labour. If you dont put your foot down now, itll only get worse.
Im exhausted. Juggling city life, DIY chaos, and now countryside servitude. All I want is a lie-in. A weekend with a book or a filmnot a shovel and a wheelbarrow.
Olivers ready to lay down the law: either Margaret stops the guilt trips, or we cut contact. Harsh? Maybe. But weve got our own lives, dreams, and a very wobbly Ikea bookshelf to assemble.
And if anyone says, But family helps family!fine. But help means being asked, not ordered. It means thanks, not manipulation. It means choice, not chores dumped on you like a sack of potatoes.
Maybe winter will freeze Margarets enthusiasm. Maybe Ill finally breathe again. And remember: weekends are for resting, not indentured servitude.
In the end, Ive learned this: duty shouldnt mean misery, and love cant be forced through manual labour. Some boundaries you have to draw yourselfor someone else will draw them for you.
