In a quiet town near Manchester, where morning mists cling to aging brick houses, my life at 27 has become an endless cycle of servitude. My name is Emily, married to Thomas, and in a few months, we’ll welcome our child. But my fragile, pregnant world is crumbling under the weight of my mother-in-law and her family, who see me only as unpaid help. We live in a three-bedroom flat owned by Thomas’s grandmother, and what was meant to be a blessing has become my cage.
**The Love That Trapped Me**
When I met Thomas at 23, he was gentle, with warm eyes and dreams of a family. We married a year later, and I was over the moon. His grandmother, Margaret, offered us her spacious flat while we got on our feet. I agreed, thinking it temporary—a stepping stone to our own life. Instead, I stepped into a trap where my role was clear: clean, cook, and keep quiet.
The flat is large but stifling. Margaret lives with us, and Thomas’s aunt, Patricia, visits nearly daily with her two unruly children. They treat the place as theirs and me as part of the furniture. From day one, Margaret made it plain: “You’re young, Emily, so make yourself useful.” I tried to please them, to earn their affection, but their indifference only grew thicker.
**A Prison of Four Walls**
My life is an unending loop of chores. Each morning, I scrub the floors because Margaret can’t abide dust. Then, it’s breakfast for everyone—porridge for her, eggs for Thomas, and when Patricia storms in with the kids, pancakes or toast on demand. By afternoon, I’m chopping veg, simmering stew, frying sausages because “guests are hungry.” Evenings? A tower of dishes and orders: “Emily, peel the spuds for tomorrow.” My pregnancy, my nausea, my aching back—none of it matters.
Margaret barks like a drill sergeant: “The soup’s too salty,” “The curtains aren’t pressed right.” Patricia chimes in: “Emily, watch my kids, I’m busy.” Her spoiled brats scatter toys, stain the sofa, and I tidy up because “family helps family.” Thomas, my husband, just murmurs, “Mum, don’t argue with Gran, she’s old.” His silence cuts deeper than their words. I’m a servant in a home that will never be mine.
**A Pregnancy Ignored**
Six months along, and my body rebels—morning sickness, back pain, exhaustion like lead weights. But Margaret only scowls: “In my day, women worked till they dropped.” Patricia sneers: “Oh, don’t be dramatic, pregnancy isn’t an illness.” Their coldness chills me. I fear for my baby—stress, sleepless nights, endless labour can’t be good. Yesterday, I nearly fainted hauling a bucket of water. No one noticed.
I begged Thomas through tears: “I can’t do this anymore. I’m pregnant, I’m breaking.” He held me but said, “Gran gave us a roof. Tough it out.” Tough it out? For how long? I won’t let my child be born into a house where its mother is a slave. I need peace, care, kindness—all I get is scorn and dirty plates.
**The Final Straw**
Yesterday, Margaret snapped: “You should be grateful for this flat, Emily. Work or get out.” Patricia added: “A wife pulls her weight, no whinging.” I stood there, clutching a dishcloth, feeling something inside me shatter. My baby, my health, my life—they mean nothing here. Thomas, as ever, said nothing. That broke me. I won’t be their maid, their cook, their ghost.
I’ve decided: I’ll leave. Scrimp for rent, find a tiny flat, even a bedsit if I must. I won’t bring my child into this hell. My friend Lucy urges: “Take Thomas and run.” But what if he chooses Margaret over me? What if I’m alone with a newborn? Fear paralyzes me, but I know this: I can’t survive months more of this.
**A Cry for Freedom**
This is my scream into the void—I am a person, not a appliance. Margaret, Patricia, their demands are killing me. Thomas, the man I love, has become part of the machine, and that agony is worse than any chore. My child deserves a mother who smiles, not one weeping over scummy sinks. At 27, I want to live, not just scrape by. Escape will be hard, but I’ll do it—for myself, for my baby.
I don’t know how to convince Thomas. I don’t know where I’ll find the strength. But I do know this: I won’t stay in this house where my pregnancy is nothing but a nuisance. Let Margaret keep her flat. Let Patricia find another maid. I am Emily, and I will choose freedom—even if it shatters my heart.
