**Diary Entry A Weekend Turned Nightmare**
I never imagined a year ago that my precious weekendsthose rare moments of respitewould turn into exhausting, backbreaking labour leaving me sore and tearful. Yet here we are, all thanks to my mother-in-law, the formidable Margaret Whitmore. Shes decided that since my husband, James, and I live in a city flat without a garden, we must be drowning in free time. Naturally, she thinks its perfectly reasonable to rope us into her endless chores.
James and I married just over a year ago. We had a modest weddingmoney was tight, and in our part of London, every penny counts. My parents helped us secure a small Victorian flat. It wasnt in great shape, so we planned gradual renovationsa tap here, wallpaper there, new kitchen flooring when we could afford it. Funds were scarce, and time even scarcer.
Meanwhile, James parents own a countryside cottage with a sprawling garden, chickens, ducks, a goat, and even two cows. They live in a quaint village where folks cling to their land like its the last slice of England. Their choice, their project. We respect that, but its not our life.
Margaret, however, saw things differently. The moment she learned we were “cosy in the city with no garden to tend,” she started summoning usfirst under the guise of visits, then with outright demands. Every Saturday and Sunday, it was the same: “Come and help!” Not for relaxation, not for a breatherjust work. The second we arrived, shed thrust a broom, hoe, or bucket into our hands and usher us outside.
At first, I thought, finewell pitch in a few times, show were part of the family. James tried reasoning with her: “Weve got renovations, little time, stressful jobs.” But Margarets stubbornness knows no bounds. “Youre living like royalty in that flat! Everything here falls on me!” 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-law. Avoid conflict. But then, on one visit, she shoved a bucket of water and a rag at me: “While I make soup, scrub the floorsall the way to the shed and back. And James can sand wood; the chicken coop needs fixing.” I tried politely refusing, said I was exhausted from the week. She didnt even listenas if I were hired help daring to slack off.
By Sunday evening, every muscle ached. Monday, I overslept. My boss was stunnedI never missed work. I lied and said I was ill. All because of a “relaxing” weekend at the in-laws. No joy, no gratitudejust simmering resentment.
The worst part? Wed explained repeatedly: *We have our own lives, our own flat in shambles.* But Margaret called daily: “When are you coming? The garden wont plough itself!” When we said we couldnt, she scoffed: “Whats taking so long with your renovations? Building Buckingham Palace?”
Her gall shocked me. Especially when she outright said: “I counted on you. Youre a womanyou should learn to milk cows and grow veg. Itll do you good.” I stayed silent, but inside, I was fuming. I never wanted the rural life. I dont need to milk cows or shovel manure.
James stood by me. He was just as fed up. He used to enjoy visitingnow it was pure obligation. Hed ignore her calls, sick of the guilt trips. Every weekend, Id wrestle with excuses to avoid going.
Eventually, I confided in my mum. She understood. “Help should be voluntary,” she said. “You cant turn a young family into free labour. If you let this slide, itll only get worse.”
Im exhausted. Juggling city jobs and DIY here, farm labour there. I just want to sleep in. Spend a weekend with a book or film, not a shovel and dirt.
James thinks we should lay down an ultimatum: either Margaret stops this, or we cut contact. Harsh? Maybe. But we have our own lives, dreams, priorities. We never signed up to be permanent farmhands.
And if anyone says, “Thats just how families are,” or “You owe your parents help”I wont argue. But help means being asked, not ordered. It means gratitude, not guilt. Its a choice, not a chore.
Maybe winter will slow Margaret down. Maybe Ill finally breathe againremembering weekends are for rest, not servitude.
In the end, Ive learned: duty shouldnt mean misery, and love cant be forced through labour. Some boundaries you have to draw yourselfor others will draw them for you.
