**Diary Entry**
Here I am, their unpaid cleaner and cook—my pregnancy means nothing to them.
In a quiet town near York, where morning mist clings to old brick houses, my life at 27 has become nothing but endless servitude. My name is Emily, married to James, and in a few months, we’ll welcome our child. But my fragile world is crumbling under the weight of my mother-in-law and her family, who see me only as free labour. We live in a three-bedroom flat owned by James’s grandmother, Edith, and it’s become my prison.
**The Love That Trapped Me**
When I met James at 23, he was kind, with a gentle smile and dreams of starting a family. We married within a year, and I thought I was living a fairy tale. His grandmother, Edith, offered us her spacious flat while we got on our feet. I agreed, thinking it temporary—just until we built our own life. Instead, I walked into a trap where my sole purpose is to clean, cook, and stay silent.
The flat is large, but it feels suffocatingly full. Edith lives with us, and James’s aunt, Margaret, visits nearly every day with her two children. They treat the place as theirs and me as part of the furniture. From day one, Edith made it clear: “Emily, you’re young—make yourself useful.” I tried to earn their affection, but their indifference only grows, as do their demands.
**A Life of Servitude**
My days are an endless cycle of chores. I mop the floors every morning because Edith can’t stand dust. Then I cook breakfast for everyone: porridge for her, eggs for James, and when Margaret arrives—pancakes or sandwiches. By afternoon, I’m peeling potatoes, simmering stews, frying sausages because “guests” must be fed. Evenings are mountains of dishes and new orders: “Emily, prep the veg for tomorrow.” My pregnancy, my nausea, my aching feet—none of it matters to them.
Edith barks commands like a drill sergeant: “This soup’s too salty,” “The curtains weren’t washed properly.” Margaret chimes in: “Emily, mind the kids for me, I’m busy.” Her spoiled, rowdy children scatter toys and stain the sofa, and I clean up after them because “family helps family.” James, instead of defending me, just sighs: “Mum, don’t argue with Gran—she’s old.” His words sting like betrayal. I’m a servant in a home that’ll never be mine.
**Pregnancy Without Mercy**
I’m six months along, and the toll is real. Nausea grips me, my back aches, exhaustion weighs me down. But Edith just scoffs: “In my day, women worked the fields till they dropped.” Margaret laughs: “Oh, Emily, stop fussing—pregnancy isn’t an illness.” Their cruelty chills me. I fear for my baby—stress, sleepless nights, endless work can’t be harmless. Yesterday, I nearly collapsed carrying a bucket of water, and no one even asked if I was alright.
I tried talking to James. Tears streamed as I begged, “I can’t do this anymore—I’m exhausted.” He hugged me but said, “Gran gave us a roof over our heads. Just hang on.” *Hang on?* For how long? I won’t raise my child in a house where his mother is treated like staff. I want peace, care, warmth—not scorn and dirty plates.
**The Final Straw**
Yesterday, Edith snapped, “Emily, you should be grateful for this flat. Earn your keep or get out.” Margaret added, “A wife pulls her weight—no whinging.” Clutching a cloth, I felt something inside me shatter. My child, my health, my life—they mean nothing here. James, as usual, stayed silent, and that broke me completely. I won’t be their maid, their cook, their shadow any longer.
I’ve decided to leave. I’ll save every pound, find a rented room—even a hostel bed if I must. I won’t bring my baby into this hell. My friend Charlotte urges, “Take James and run before it’s too late.” But what if he chooses his grandmother over me? What if I’m left alone with a child? Fear paralyses me, but I know I can’t survive months more of this.
**A Cry for Freedom**
This isn’t just a diary entry—it’s a scream for dignity. Edith, Margaret, their endless demands are destroying me. James, the man I love, is part of the machine now, and that agony cuts deepest. My child deserves a mother who smiles, not one weeping over stacks of dishes. At 27, I want to *live*, not just endure. Escaping won’t be easy, but I’ll do it—for myself and my baby.
I don’t know how to convince James or where I’ll find the strength. But one thing’s clear: I won’t stay where my pregnancy is treated as a nuisance. Let Edith keep her flat. Let Margaret find another servant. I’m Emily, and I choose freedom—even if it breaks my heart.
