**Diary Entry**
My mother-in-law curses me for stealing her son, who refused to cater to her whims anymore.
Three years ago, I first stepped into my husband’s family home, and from that moment, I knew—my Simon had no place there for happiness. All the warmth of his mother’s heart went to her younger son, Ethan, while Simon was just a shadow—an eternal helper, expected to bow to every command. Ethan, though, basked in adoration: spoiled, shielded like some fragile treasure, never lifting a finger.
Simon’s parents, Margaret and James, lived in a large timber-framed house at the edge of a village, surrounded by endless fields and a winding river. In a place like that, there was always work—fixing the porch, mending the shed, weeding the garden. Chickens, goats, vegetable patches—enough tasks for an entire crew. I thanked fate that Simon and I lived far away in the city, a five-hour journey from their homestead. He cherished that distance. Yet the moment he set foot in his parents’ house, an avalanche of chores crashed over him, as if he weren’t their son but some hired labourer paid in scraps.
When we first moved in together, Margaret spun tales of countryside bliss: bonfires under the stars, fishing by the river, fresh air, and homemade cider. We fell for those dreams and decided to spend our first holiday in the village. We imagined peace—long evenings by the water, silence broken only by rustling leaves. But our hopes shattered before we even left the train station.
The second we crossed the threshold, exhausted from the journey, rest turned to dust. Simon was thrust into muddy boots and sent to repair the fence. Me? I was shoved straight to the kitchen, faced with a mountain of unpeeled potatoes and dishes left from some long-finished feast. Then came cooking for the whole brood—his parents, their friends, even distant relatives. Two weeks of holiday became forced labour. We lit a bonfire once—just to grill meat for their guests. Simon never made it to the river. Worst of all was Ethan. While we scrambled like frantic animals, he lounged on the porch with his phone or slept till noon. His life revolved around three points: sofa, kitchen, loo. And still, Margaret gazed at him with reverence, as though he were her sole hope.
By the seventh day, I snapped. That night, finally alone, I asked Simon, “Why does your brother do nothing? What exactly is he busy with?” My husband, staring tiredly at the ceiling, said Ethan was a “future genius.” His mother insisted he needed rest for his studies—manual work wasn’t his lot. Except those studies had dragged on for nine years: dropout after dropout, failure after failure. And Simon? He’d spent years bailing them out—fixing roofs, chopping wood, digging gardens. Until I came along.
That “holiday” was the final straw. I made Simon see the weight he carried. Why should he break his back while Ethan lived like some idle lord? Couldn’t his brother lift a finger? His parents waited months for our visits to patch the barn or whitewash walls—things his father could’ve managed. But Margaret guarded Ethan like treasure, never letting him touch even a broom.
To my relief, Simon listened. For the first time, he saw the unfairness. No more being their eternal saviour. We refused the next holiday summons—May Day, Christmas, all of them. And when we finally booked a real holiday—sun, sea, freedom—we told his family. Margaret erupted. She shrieked about betrayal, about how they *needed* us. Simon coldly asked why. Turned out, they’d started rebuilding the conservatory—and, naturally, expected our labour.
That’s when my husband snapped. “You’ve got another son,” he flung at her. “Maybe it’s his turn?” She stammered about Ethan’s studies, how he couldn’t be disturbed. Simon reminded her how *he’d* worked for them as a student because “Ethan was too young.” Now? Now Ethan was grown but still untouchable. “Mum, you’ve got two sons,” he said, voice raw. “Feels like one’s yours, and I’m just some stranger.” Then he hung up.
Within a minute, Margaret called *me.* Her voice trembled with rage and tears. She accused me of poisoning her son’s mind, of tearing their family apart, of stealing Simon. I hung up and blocked her. And I don’t regret it one bit.
If Simon were an only child, I’d urge him to help. But with two sons—one living like a prince, the other a slave—that isn’t fair. I won’t let my husband feel like an outcast in his own family. If cutting ties is the cost, so be it. Our life is ours, and we’ve finally chosen ourselves.
