My mother-in-law curses me for stealing her son, who refused to cater to her whims anymore.
Three years ago, I stepped into my husband’s family home and immediately understood one thing—my husband, Oliver, had never known true happiness there. All the warmth of his mother’s heart belonged to his younger brother, Ethan, while Oliver was treated like an afterthought, forever at her beck and call. Ethan, on the other hand, was doted on—pampered, coddled, as if he were made of glass, never lifting a finger.
Oliver’s parents, Margaret and Thomas Wilson, lived in a large timber-framed house on the outskirts of a quiet village, surrounded by endless fields and a winding river. There was always something to fix—the porch, the shed, the garden beds. Chickens, goats, and vegetable patches kept them busy enough for a full-time crew. I thanked my lucky stars that Oliver and I lived far away in London, a five-hour drive from their rural estate. He, too, cherished the distance. But the moment he set foot in their home, he was buried under a mountain of chores, as if he were hired help, not their own flesh and blood.
When we first moved in together, Margaret spun tales of an idyllic countryside life—bonfires under the stars, lazy days by the river, fresh air, and homemade cider. Lured by the fantasy, we decided to spend our first holiday there. We imagined peace, long evenings by the water, silence broken only by rustling leaves. But the dream shattered before we even left the train station.
The second we arrived, exhausted, our break dissolved into dust. Oliver was handed a pair of muddy boots and sent to mend the fence. Meanwhile, I was whisked away to a pile of unwashed dishes and a sack of potatoes waiting to be peeled. Then came the cooking—meal after meal for his parents, their friends, distant relatives. Two weeks of supposed leave turned into forced labour. We lit a bonfire once—just to grill meat for guests. Oliver never made it to the river. What grated most, though, was watching Ethan. While Oliver and I dashed around like overworked packhorses, Ethan lounged on the patio, glued to his phone or sleeping until noon. His life revolved around three places: sofa, kitchen, loo. And yet, Margaret gazed at him like he was her pride and joy.
By the seventh day, I snapped. That night, when we were finally alone, I asked Oliver, “Why does your brother do absolutely nothing? What does he actually *do* besides sleep?” Exhausted, Oliver stared at the ceiling and muttered that Ethan was a “future genius”—his mother believed he needed to save his energy for his studies, while manual labour was beneath him. Never mind that his “studies” had dragged on for nine years—flunking, dropping out, scraping by. And Oliver? For years, he’d been their go-to fixer—patching roofs, chopping wood, digging gardens. That was, until I came along.
That holiday was the final straw. I started talking sense into Oliver—why should he break his back while Ethan lived like a lord? Couldn’t the golden boy lift a finger? His parents waited months for our visits just to paint walls or repair the barn, even though Thomas was perfectly capable. But Margaret guarded Ethan like a treasure, refusing to let him even hold a broom.
To my relief, Oliver listened. For the first time, he saw the injustice. Enough was enough. We stopped giving in to their demands. When Easter rolled around, despite Margaret’s calls, we stayed home. We skipped the next holiday too. And when we finally booked a real holiday—sun, sea, and freedom—we told his family. Margaret erupted like a volcano. She screamed that we’d betrayed them, that they needed us. Oliver coldly asked why. Turned out, they were refurbishing the conservatory—and, of course, expected us to do it.
That’s when my husband snapped. He fired back, “You’ve got *another* son. Maybe it’s time he pitched in?” Margaret stammered—Ethan was *so* important, *so* busy with his studies. Oliver reminded her how he’d slaved for them as a student while Ethan was “too young.” Now? Now Ethan was grown but still untouchable. “Mum, you’ve got two sons,” he said, voice raw. “But it’s always felt like he’s yours, and I’m just the spare.” Then he hung up.
Less than a minute later, my phone rang. Margaret’s voice trembled with rage and tears. She accused me of poisoning her son’s mind, tearing their family apart, stealing Oliver away. I pressed end, blocked her number, and didn’t look back.
If Oliver were an only child, I’d be the first to insist on helping. But when one son gets treated like royalty while the other’s treated like a serf—that’s not family. That’s favouritism. I refuse to let my husband feel like an outsider in his own home. If cutting ties with his mother is the price, so be it. Our life is ours—and we’re finally choosing ourselves.
