My mother-in-law is convinced I tore the family apart by taking her son away from her.
Three years ago, I was introduced to my husband’s family, and from the first moment, it was clear: Oliver had never known love in that house. All the warmth and care from his mother, Margaret, went to his younger brother, Ethan, while Oliver was little more than an errand boy, expected to cater to their every whim. Margaret doted on Ethan, shielding him from even the slightest hardship as if he were a delicate flower, while her eldest son was treated like a working horse.
Margaret and her husband, Richard, lived in an old cottage on the outskirts of a lakeside village, three hours from our town. A place like that was never short on chores—fixing the roof, chopping firewood, tending the vegetable patch. Not to mention the chickens, the cows, the endless rows of crops—enough work for ten people. I was grateful Oliver and I lived far away in our own flat, untouched by the chaos. And truth be told, he was just as happy to keep his distance. But the moment he set foot in that house, a flood of demands would crash over him as if he were hired help, not their son.
When we first married, Margaret would invite us over, painting village life as idyllic—barbecues at sunset, woodland walks, fresh air, and homemade honey. Seduced by the fantasy, we decided to spend our first holiday together there. We dreamed of peace, long fireside talks, and quiet broken only by birdsong. Reality, however, was harsher than we’d imagined.
The moment we stepped off the bus, dusty and exhausted from the long journey, the illusion of a holiday vanished. Oliver was handed old boots and sent to fix the shed. I was dragged into the kitchen to tackle a mountain of dirty dishes from some family feast, then made to cook for a crowd—Richard, Margaret, their neighbours, relatives. A holiday? More like hard labour. In two weeks, we barely caught our breath. We had one rushed barbecue between chores. The woodland walks remained a dream. Worst of all was Ethan’s behaviour. While Oliver and I raced around like overworked horses, his brother lounged on the sofa, flipping channels or scrolling on his phone. His routine was simple: bed, fridge, bathroom. And all the while, Margaret gazed at him adoringly, as if he were royalty.
By the fifth day, I snapped. That evening, when we were finally alone, I asked Oliver, “What exactly does your brother do? Why does he never lift a finger?” He sighed and said Ethan was the “intellectual.” Destined for greater things, apparently—too good for manual labour. He was studying, you see, pouring all his energy into books. Except he’d been at it for eight years, flunking out and getting readmitted. And Oliver? Oliver had always been the one to rescue them—mending fences, chopping wood, patching the roof. Long before I came along.
That “holiday” was my breaking point. I began talking to Oliver about changing the rules. Why should he carry the household while Ethan lived like a prince? Couldn’t his brother at least share the load? His parents waited months for us to fix the chicken coop or paint the gate—tasks Richard could have handled. But Margaret would never let precious Ethan lift a finger—he was a “scholar,” after all, too busy for distractions.
Thankfully, Oliver listened. For the first time, he saw the truth—he was being used. Enough, he agreed. No more free labour. We stopped giving in to their pleas. When the May bank holiday came, despite Margaret’s relentless calls, we didn’t go. Nor any holiday after. And when we finally booked a real holiday—sun, sea, and freedom—we told them. Margaret exploded. She screamed down the phone that we had to come, that they needed help. Oliver calmly asked for what. Turned out, they’d started house renovations—and of course, assumed we’d be there.
That’s when my husband had enough. “You have another son,” he said flatly. “Maybe it’s his turn?” Margaret protested—Ethan was busy with studies, no time. Oliver reminded her how he’d worked for the family as a student because “Ethan was too young.” And now? Now Ethan was grown but still untouchable. “Mum, you’ve got two sons,” he said finally. “But it’s like one’s yours and the other’s a stranger.” Then he hung up.
Less than a minute later, Margaret called me. Her voice shook with rage. She accused me of turning Oliver against his family, poisoning his heart, stealing him from them. I listened to the tirade for a few seconds—then silently blocked her number. And I don’t regret it.
If Oliver were an only child, I’d insist we help his parents. But when one son lives like a king and the other like a servant, that isn’t fairness—it’s cruelty. I won’t let my husband feel like an outsider in his own family. And if that means cutting ties with his mother, so be it. Our lives aren’t theirs to claim. We’ve finally chosen ourselves.
*Sometimes, walking away isn’t selfish—it’s the only way to hold onto who you are.*
