In a quaint town near York, where morning mists cling to aged brick houses, my life at twenty-seven has become an endless dance to others’ whims. My name is Emily, married to Thomas, and in a few months, we’ll welcome a child. But my fragile, expectant world crumbles under the weight of his mother’s family, for whom I’m nothing but unpaid help. We live in a three-bedroom flat owned by Thomas’s grandmother, and it’s become my prison.
**The Love That Trapped Me**
When I met Thomas at twenty-three, he was gentle, with a warm smile and dreams of family. We married within a year, 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—until I realised I’d stepped into a snare. My role? Clean, cook, and keep quiet.
The flat is large, but crowded with people. Margaret lives with us, and Thomas’s aunt, Patricia, visits nearly daily with her two children. They treat the place like their own, and me like part of the furniture. From day one, his mother made it clear: “Emily, you’re young—make yourself useful.” I tried to please them, to earn their affection, but their indifference only grew.
**Servitude Behind Closed Doors**
My days blur into scrubbing and cooking. Each morning, I mop the floors because Margaret can’t stand dust. Then, I cook breakfast for everyone: porridge for her, eggs for Thomas, and when Patricia arrives with the kids, pancakes or toast. By noon, I’m chopping veg for a roast or stewing soup because “guests” must be fed. Evenings bring towers of dishes and fresh orders: “Emily, peel the potatoes for tomorrow.” My pregnancy, my nausea, my aching feet—none of it matters.
Margaret barks orders like a sergeant: “The soup’s too salty,” “You didn’t starch the curtains right.” Patricia chimes in: “Emily, mind the children, I’m busy.” Her spoiled, loud little ones scatter toys and stain the sofa, while I tidy up because “family comes first.” Thomas, instead of defending me, whispers, “Mum, don’t argue with Gran, she’s old.” His words sting like betrayal. I’m a slave in a home that will never be mine.
**Pregnancy Under Siege**
At six months along, my body rebels—nausea, back pain, exhaustion. But Margaret only scowls. “In my day, women worked till they dropped,” she snaps. Patricia laughs: “Oh, Emily, don’t be daft, pregnancy isn’t an illness.” Their coldness chills me. I fear for the baby—stress, sleeplessness, relentless labour can’t be good. Yesterday, I nearly fainted hauling a bucket of water, but no one even asked if I was all right.
I tried talking to Thomas. Tears spilled as I begged, “I can’t do this anymore—I’m exhausted.” He hugged me but said, “Gran gave us the flat. Bear with it.” Bear with it? How much longer? I won’t let my child be born into a house where its mother is a maid. I want peace, care, tenderness—but all I get are scowls and dirty plates.
**The Final Straw**
Yesterday, Margaret hissed, “Emily, you should be grateful we took you in. Work harder, or out you go.” Patricia nodded: “A wife should pull her weight, not whinge.” Clutching a dishcloth, I felt something inside me snap. My child, my health, my life—they mean nothing here. Thomas, as ever, stayed silent, and that shattered me. I won’t be their skivvy any longer.
I’ve decided to leave. I’ll scrimp for rent, even if it’s a bedsit. I won’t birth my baby in this hell. My friend Sophie urges, “Take Thomas and run—now.” But what if he chooses his grandmother over me? What if I’m left alone with a child? Fear grips me, but I know I can’t survive months more of this servitude.
**A Cry for Freedom**
This is my scream into the void—to be seen as human. Margaret, Patricia, their endless demands are killing me. Thomas, the man I love, has become part of the machine, and it breaks my heart. My child deserves a mother who smiles, not one weeping over greasy pans. At twenty-seven, I want to live, not just endure.
I don’t know how to convince Thomas or where I’ll find the strength. But I know this: I won’t stay where my pregnancy is a nuisance. Let Margaret keep her flat. Let Patricia hire a maid. I am Emily, and I’ll choose freedom—even if it shatters me.
