From the moment I got married, I tried my best to get along with my mother-in-law. For eight years, I put up with it and smoothed things over. Ever since my husband and I moved from the countryside to the city, his mum—Margaret Thompson—would call us every single weekend. It was always the same: “Come round this weekend, we need help!” Sometimes it was sorting potatoes, other times digging the garden, or helping her youngest daughter, Emily, hang wallpaper. And every time, we went. And every time, we helped.
Meanwhile, I’m not eighteen anymore, and my life isn’t carefree. I work five days a week, raise two kids, keep the house running. I have my own home, my own family, and just once a week, I’d like… to breathe.
But Margaret saw us as free labour. If I so much as hinted I was tired, I’d hear the same old line: “Well, who else is going to do it?” And fine—if it were actual emergencies, maybe. But no. Once, she asked me not to come over, only to ring later with a new “urgent” task—helping Emily with her wallpaper. Like a fool, I went. And guess what? While I ran around with a tape measure and paint roller, “hardworking” Emily was admiring her fresh manicure in the mirror and boiling the kettle for the tenth time.
My husband saw it all. He’s no idiot—he knew exactly what was happening. But he wouldn’t dare speak up—she’s his mum, after all. So I kept quiet. I endured. Until I didn’t.
One weekend, I just stopped going with him. No drama. No explanations. I stayed home and said I had my own plans.
Naturally, Margaret wasn’t happy. She grilled her son—why was I suddenly so “indifferent”? My husband begged me to just go, “so Mum doesn’t worry.” But I was done playing along.
I was tired. At thirty-five, I deserve a weekend to rest, not serve people who won’t lift a finger for themselves. I saw no gratitude, no respect—just demands.
That Saturday, I finally got my own house in order. I caught up on laundry, cooked a proper meal, and on Sunday—for the first time in years—I lazed on the sofa with a book. It was glorious. Until the doorbell rang.
Emily stood on my doorstep.
No hello, no courtesy—just straight to accusations. I was selfish, rude, abandoning the family, ignoring Margaret’s calls. She said I had to help—”you’re part of the family now.”
I listened calmly, wished her a nice day, and shut the door.
But it didn’t end there. That evening, Margaret herself turned up. She launched right in—I was ungrateful, she’d done everything for us, and now I was “too big for my boots,” disrespecting my elders. As she stood there lecturing me, all those hours, weekends, years flashed through my mind—scrubbing, cooking, digging, pasting, washing—all for her.
And she thought it was fine to stand in my flat and scold me.
That’s when it hit me—enough.
I walked to the door, opened it, and wordlessly pointed her out. Margaret, stunned, muttered something under her breath but left. I sat back on the sofa, picked up my book, and finally exhaled.
This isn’t anger. It’s self-preservation. My time, my energy—they belong to no one else. The only ones I owe anything to are myself and my family.
That night, I slept peacefully. For the first time in years, I felt free.
