My stepmother kept demanding my help every weekenduntil I finally said enough. Im not a housemaid, and nobody gets to dictate my schedule.
From the moment I got married, I tried hard to get along with my motherinlaw. For eight years I bit my tongue and put on a brave face. When my husband and I moved from the countryside to Lyon, his mother, JacquelineBertrand, began calling us each week. The same refrain every time: Come over this weekend, we need help! Sometimes it was sorting potatoes, other times digging the garden, or assisting 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, and run the household. I, too, deserve a breakat least a Sunday to catch my breath.
For Jacqueline, we were free labour. The moment I showed any hint of tiredness she snapped, Who else will do it but you? Fine. Yet it was never a real 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 sprinting with tape measure and brush, that princess Élodie lounged in front of her mirror, admiring her fresh manicure and repeatedly heating the kettle.
My husband saw everything. He wasnt naïve; he understood we were being taken advantage of. He never said a wordafter all, she was his mother. So I clenched my teeth. Until the day when
On a Saturday I simply stopped accompanying her. No drama, no explanation. I stayed home, claiming other plans.
Naturally Jacqueline was displeased. She immediately questioned her sonwhy had I suddenly become 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 wouldnt lift a finger themselves. I saw no gratitude or respect from them, only demands.
That weekend I finally tended to my own home. I washed the piledup laundry, cooked a proper meal, and on Sunday I treated myself to a book on the couch. Pure blissuntil the doorbell rang.
Élodie.
Without a greeting or any courtesy, she unleashed her fury: I was selfish, illraised, a traitor to the family. She reminded me of my dutysince I was part of it. I listened, wished her a good day, and shut the door.
But it didnt end there. That same evening Jacqueline turned up at my place. The moment she stepped inside she accused me of ingratitude and contempt, claiming she had given everything. I looked at her, and memories of countless hours cooking, cleaning, and gardening flooded back.
There she was, preaching morals to me.
It was too much.
Without a word I opened the door and showed her the way out. Stunned, she muttered something before leaving. I returned to my book and, for the first time in years, I actually breathed.
It wasnt angerit was freedom. The certainty that my time belongs only to me. If I owed anything, it was to myself and my children.
That night I fell asleep with a light heart. Finally free.
