Were not your servants! How my motherinlaw turned every weekend into a grind
If someone had told me a year ago that my rare, longawaited weekends would devolve into backbreaking chores that left every muscle sore and tears brimming in my eyes, I would have laughed it off. Yet here I am, living that nightmare, and the culprit is my motherinlaw, the ironwilled Margaret Thompson. She decided that because my husband James and I live in a highrise flat in Manchester without a garden, we have all the time in the world and can be drafted whenever she pleases.
James and I have been married just over a year. Our wedding was modest money was tight, and in our town every penny counts. My parents helped us move into a small Victorian terraced house. It wasnt in the best shape, so we set about renovating bit by bit: fixing a tap here, hanging wallpaper there, fitting new flooring in the kitchen. Cash is always short, and time is even tighter.
Jamess parents own a farmhouse out in Yorkshire with a big garden, a flock of chickens, a few ducks, a goat and even two cows. They live on a plot thats been in the family since before the war, a project they chose themselves. We respect that, but its not a life we want.
Margaret saw things differently. When she learned we were living comfortably in the city without a garden or any chores, she immediately started inviting us over. At first it was just a little visit, but soon every Saturday and Sunday came with a clear command: Come and help! Not relax or have a break, but work. The moment we stepped onto the farm she handed us a broom, a spade or a bucket and said, Lets get to it.
At first I thought, fine, well lend a hand a few times, show were part of the family. James tried to curb his mothers expectations: Weve got renovations, long hours, stressful jobs. But Margarets stubbornness knows no bounds. Youre living like royalty in the city! Everything falls on my shoulders here! She brushed off any talk of fatigue. What else is there to do in your tiny flat? We raised you, now you owe us!
I wanted to be a good soninlaw and avoid conflict. Then, during one visit, she thrust a bucket of water and a rag into my hands: While Im making soup, you mop the whole floor from the shed back to the house. And James, youll saw some boards; the chicken coop needs fixing. I tried to decline, saying I was exhausted from the week, but she didnt hear a word. It was as if I were a hired hand expected to obey without question.
By Sunday night every muscle ached. On Monday I called in sick. My boss was stunned Id never taken a day off before, and now I was flat on my back. I fibbed that I felt unwell, all because of a relaxing weekend at the farm. No gratitude, just anger and disappointment.
The worst part was that no matter how often we explained we had our own duties, a house under construction, and we were exhausted, Margaret called daily: When are you coming? The garden wont weed itself! When we said it was impossible at the moment, she snapped, What are you building that youve been at it for months? A palace? Her audacity shocked me, especially when she bluntly added, I was counting on you, dear. Youre a woman, you should learn to milk cows and grow veg thatll do you good. I kept quiet, but inside I was boiling. I never wanted a country life, never wanted to milk cows or haul muck.
James stood by me. He was equally fed up with her demands. He used to enjoy trips to his parents farm; now they felt like a chore. He often ignored her calls because they were just accusations. Each time I wrestled with myself, looking for excuses not to go back.
Eventually I rang my own mother and poured everything out. She got it straight away. Help should be offered, not demanded. A young couple isnt free labor for the family, she said. If you let it slide now, itll only get worse.
Im exhausted. Juggling city work, endless renovations, and farm labour leaves me with no time to simply lie in bed, read a book or watch a film without a shovel in my hand.
James thinks we need an ultimatum: either Margaret stops terrorising us, or we cut the tie. It sounds harsh, maybe, but we have our own lives, dreams, goals. We never signed up to be permanent handymen.
And to anyone who says, Thats normal, you have to help your parents, I wont argue. Help means being asked, not ordered. It means gratitude, not manipulation. It means a choice, not a load of tasks thrust upon you.
Perhaps winter will cool Margarets zeal, and I can finally breathe. Ill remember that weekends are for rest, not forced service. In the end I learned that duty performed out of obligation feels like a burden, and love cant be bought with labour. Some boundaries have to be drawn by yourself, or else others will draw them for you.
