Mother-in-law demanded help every weekenduntil I put my foot down. Im not a maid, and no one gets to dictate my schedule.
From the start of my marriage, I tried my best to get along with my mother-in-law. For eight years, I gritted my teeth and made the best of it. After my husband and I moved from the countryside to London, his motherMargaret Whitmorecalled us every week. Same old song: “Come over this weekend, we need help!” One week it was sorting potatoes, the next digging the garden, or helping her youngest daughter hang wallpaper. And every time, we went. Like obedient puppets.
Thing is, Im not twenty anymore, and life isnt a walk in the park. I work five days a week, raise two kids, and run a household. I deserve a breakeven just a Sunday to catch my breath.
But to Margaret, we were free labour. At the slightest hint of exhaustion, shed snap, “Well, who else will do it?” Fine. But it was never an actual emergency. Once, she told me not to come to her house only to send me straight to her daughter, Emily, to repaint her lounge. Like a fool, I went. And guess what? While I was scrambling with a tape measure and brush, “Princess” Emily was lounging in front of her mirror, admiring her fresh manicure and boiling the kettle for the hundredth time.
My husband saw it all. He wasnt stupidhe knew we were being taken for granted. But he never spoke up. She was his mum, after all. So I kept quiet. Until one day
A Saturday came, and I simply stopped going with him. No drama. No explanation. I stayed home, insisting I had other plans.
Naturally, Margaret wasnt pleased. She immediately grilled her sonwhy was I suddenly so “ungrateful”? My husband begged me to go, “just to keep her happy.” But Id had enough of the charade.
I was thirty-five. Old enough to rest, not to wait on people who couldnt lift a finger themselves. I saw no gratitude, no respectjust demands.
That weekend, I finally tended to my own home. I washed the mountain of laundry, cooked a proper meal, and on Sunday I treated myself to a book, curled up on the sofa. Bliss. Until the doorbell rang.
Emily.
No hello, no courtesyjust a torrent of rage. I was selfish, rude, a traitor to the family. She reminded me of my “duty”since I was part of it now.
I listened, wished her a nice day, and shut the door.
But it didnt end there. That evening, Margaret stormed in. Before shed even taken off her coat, she accused me of ingratitude, of disrespectafter all shed “done for us.” I stared at her, remembering all those hours cooking, cleaning, gardening.
And there she was, lecturing me.
Enough.
Without a word, I opened the door and pointed her out. Stunned, she muttered something before leaving. I went back to my book and, for the first time in years I breathed.
It wasnt anger. It was freedom. The certainty that my time belonged to me alone. And if I owed anyone anything it was to myself, and my children.
That night, I fell asleep with a light heart. Finally free.
