From the very beginning of my marriage, I tried to build a good relationship with my mother-in-law. For eight long years, I endured and smoothed things over. Ever since my husband and I moved from the countryside to London, his mother—Margaret Wilkins—would call every week without fail. Her words were always the same: “Come for the weekend, we need your help!” Sometimes it was sorting potatoes, other times digging her garden or hanging wallpaper for her youngest daughter, Emily. And every single time, we went. We helped.
But let me be clear—I wasn’t some carefree twenty-year-old with endless free time. I worked five days a week, raised two children, and kept my own home running. I had my own life, my own family, and sometimes, just once in a week, I wanted… to breathe.
Margaret treated us like unpaid servants. If I dared mention I was tired, she’d fire back with, “Well, who else will do it?” And it wasn’t as if these were dire emergencies—no! Sometimes she’d tell me not to come, only to ring later with another “urgent” task—helping Emily with her wallpaper. Fool that I was, I went. And what do you think happened? While I scrambled about with a tape measure and roller, “hardworking” Emily preened in front of the mirror, admiring her fresh manicure, and boiled the kettle half a dozen times.
My husband saw it all. He wasn’t stupid—he knew exactly how we were being used. But he never spoke up. After all, she was his mother. I stayed quiet, gritted my teeth. Until one day, I didn’t.
Without warning, without argument, I simply stopped going with him to her house. I stayed home, saying I had my own plans.
Naturally, Margaret wasn’t pleased. She bombarded my husband with questions—what was wrong with me, why had I suddenly become so “heartless”? He begged me to come just once, “to keep the peace.” But I was done performing.
I was thirty-five. I had every right to rest on my weekend, not to wait hand and foot on people who wouldn’t lift a finger for themselves. There was no gratitude there, no respect—just demands.
That Saturday, I finally caught up on my own life. I washed the piled-up laundry, cooked a proper meal, and on Sunday—for the first time in years—I sprawled on the sofa with a book. It was glorious. Until the doorbell rang.
There stood Emily.
No greeting, no courtesy—just accusations. I was selfish, shameless, a bad wife, ignoring Margaret’s calls. She said I was *obligated* to drop everything and help—”you’re family now.”
I listened calmly, wished her a good day, and shut the door.
But it wasn’t over. That evening, Margaret herself arrived, storming in with more scolding. I was ungrateful, she’d done so much for us, and now I’d “grown too big for my boots,” disrespecting my elders. As she ranted, I thought of all the hours, the weekends I’d wasted—scrubbing, cooking, digging, pasting—all for her.
And here she stood, in *my* home, daring to lecture me.
That was it.
Without a word, I walked to the door, opened it, and pointed. Flustered, she muttered but left. I sank back onto the sofa, picked up my book, and finally exhaled.
It wasn’t anger. It was self-respect. The understanding that my time, my energy, belonged to no one but me—and my own family. That night, I slept with a light heart. For the first time in years, I was free.
