From the moment I got married, I really tried to get along with my mother-in-law. For eight years, I put up with everything and smoothed things over. Ever since my husband and I moved from the countryside to London, his mum—Margaret—called us every single weekend. Same thing every time: “Come round this weekend, we need help!” Either sorting potatoes in the shed, weeding the garden, or hanging wallpaper for her youngest daughter, Emma. And every time, we went. And we helped.
Meanwhile, I’m not eighteen anymore, and my life isn’t exactly carefree. I work five days a week, raise two kids, and run my own house. I’ve got my own family, my own mess to deal with, and just once a week, I’d like to… just breathe.
But Margaret treated us like free labour. If I even hinted I was tired, I’d get the same guilt trip: “Well, who else is going to do it?” And it wasn’t even emergencies—half the time, she’d tell me not to bother coming over, only to call back with a new “urgent” task—help Emma with the wallpaper. Like a fool, I went. And guess what? While I was running around with a tape measure and a roller, “hardworking” Emma was admiring her fresh manicure in the mirror and boiling the kettle for the tenth time.
My husband saw it all. He’s not stupid; he knew exactly what was happening. But he never said a word—she’s his mum, after all. So I bit my tongue. Until one day, I just stopped going with him. No drama, no explanation. Just stayed home and said I had plans.
Of course, Margaret wasn’t happy. She grilled him about why I’d suddenly turned “cold.” He asked me to come—”just so she doesn’t worry”—but I was done with the act.
I’m thirty-five. I deserve a weekend off, not running errands for people who won’t lift a finger for themselves. There was no gratitude, no respect—just demands.
That Saturday, I finally caught up on my own life. Washed the mountain of laundry, cooked a proper meal, and on Sunday—for the first time in years—I sprawled on the sofa with a book. Bliss. Until the doorbell rang.
Emma was on the doorstep.
No hello, no niceties—just straight into telling me how selfish I was. How rude, how ungrateful, how I was letting the family down by ignoring her mum’s calls. Said I *owed* it to them—”you’re family now.”
I listened quietly, wished her a nice day, and shut the door.
But it didn’t end there. That evening, Margaret herself showed up. Started in the moment I opened the door—how I was disrespectful, how she’d done so much for us, and now I’d gotten “too big for my boots.” I just stood there, remembering all those hours, weekends, years I’d spent scrubbing, cooking, digging, hanging wallpaper—for her.
And now she was in *my* house, lecturing *me*.
That’s when it hit me—enough.
I walked to the door, opened it, and without a word, pointed outside. She muttered something, shocked, but she left. I sat back down, picked up my book, and exhaled.
It wasn’t anger. It was self-respect. Knowing my time and energy belong to me—and if I owe anyone anything, it’s myself and my own family.
That night, I fell asleep lighter than I had in years. And for the first time in forever, I felt free.
