My motherinlaw demanded help every weekenduntil I finally said enough. Im not a servant, and no one gets to dictate my schedule.
From the moment I got married, I tried hard to get along with my motherinlaw. For eight years I gritted my teeth and put on a brave face. After my husband and I moved from the countryside to Lyon, his motherJacquelineBertrandcalled us each week. The same refrain every time: Come this weekend, we need help! Sometimes to sort potatoes, sometimes to hoe the garden, other times to assist her younger daughter with wallpaper. And each time we showed up, like puppets on a string.
But Im no longer in my twenties, and my life isnt a smooth river. I work five days a week, raise two children, run the household. I, too, deserve a breakat least a Sunday to breathe.
To Jacqueline, however, we were free labor. The moment I showed any sign of fatigue she replied, Who else will do it but you? Fine. Yet it was never a genuine emergency. One day she asked me not to come to her house only to send me to help her daughter Élodie repaint the living room. I went, like a fool. Guess what? While I was rushing with tape measure and brush, that princess Élodie lounged in front of her mirror, admiring a fresh manicure and repeatedly boiling water.
My husband saw it all. He wasnt naïve; he understood we were being taken for granted. But he never spoke upafter all, she was his mother. So I kept my mouth shut, until the day when
One Saturday I simply stopped accompanying her. No drama, no explanationI stayed home, saying I had other plans.
Naturally, Jacqueline was displeased. She immediately questioned her sonwhy was I suddenly so ungrateful? My husband begged me to go, just to make her happy. But I was fed up with the charade.
I was thirtyfive, entitled to rest, not to serve people who dont lift a finger themselves. I saw no gratitude or respect from them, only demands.
That weekend I finally cared for my own home. I washed the piledup laundry, cooked a real meal, and on Sunday I treated myself to a book, sprawled on the couch. Pure blissuntil someone knocked at the door.
Élodie.
Without a greeting, without any courtesy, she unleashed her anger: I was selfish, badly raised, a traitor to the family. She reminded me of my dutysince I was part of it. I listened, wished her a good day, and closed the door.
But it didnt end there. That same evening Jacqueline turned up at my place. The moment she entered she accused me of ingratitude and contempt, claiming she had given everything. I stared at her, and all the hours spent cooking, cleaning, gardening flashed through my mind.
And there she was, daring to lecture me.
It was too much.
Without a word I opened the door and pointed her out. Shocked, she muttered something before leaving. I returned to my book and, for the first time in years, I truly breathed.
It wasnt angerit was freedom. The certainty that my time belongs only to me. If I owe anything, its to myself and my children.
That night I fell asleep with a light heart. Finally free.
