**Personal Diary Entry**
Three years ago, I met my husband’s family, and from the very first moment, it was clear: my Edward had never been the favourite. All the love, all the care from his mother went to his younger brother, Oliver, while Edward was treated like little more than an errand boy. His mother, Margaret, coddled and shielded Oliver from even the smallest hardship, as if he were some delicate treasure, while Edward was nothing but a workhorse to her.
Margaret and her husband, Robert, lived in an old cottage on the outskirts of a lakeside village, three hours from our city. A place like that never runs short of chores—fixing the roof, chopping firewood, tending the garden, not to mention the chickens, the cows, the endless rows of vegetables. Enough work for ten people. I was grateful we lived far away, in our own flat, untouched by their chaos. And if I’m honest, Edward was just as happy keeping his distance. But the moment he set foot in that house, he was buried under a mountain of tasks, as if he were hired help rather than their son.
When we first married, Margaret would invite us over, painting idyllic scenes of country life—barbecues at sunset, woodland strolls, fresh air, homemade honey. Seduced by the fantasy, we decided to spend our first holiday together there. We dreamed of peace, long fireside chats, quiet broken only by birdsong. Reality, of course, was harsher than we could’ve imagined.
The second we stepped off the bus, dusty and exhausted from the long journey, any hope of rest vanished. Edward was handed a pair of battered wellies and sent to repair the shed, while I was dragged into the kitchen to face a tower of dishes left from some family gathering. Then came cooking for the whole crowd—Robert, Margaret, their neighbours, relatives. A holiday? More like hard labour. In two weeks, we barely caught our breath. We managed one rushed barbecue between tasks. Those woodland walks never happened. But what infuriated me most was Oliver. While Edward and I raced around like overworked mules, he lounged on the sofa, flipping TV channels or scrolling through his phone. His routine was simple: bed, loo, fridge. And Margaret adored him as if he were the Crown Jewels.
By the fifth day, I’d had enough. That evening, when we were finally alone, I asked Edward, “What exactly does your brother do? Why is he exempt from everything?” He sighed and said Oliver was the “intellectual.” Apparently, manual labour wasn’t his calling—their mother was saving him for greater things. He was studying, you see, devoting all his energy to books. Never mind that he’d been at university for eight years, dropping out and re-enrolling. Meanwhile, Edward had always been the one who rushed back to fix the fence, chop the wood, patch the roof. It had been that way long before I came along.
That “holiday” became my breaking point. I started talking to Edward about changing the rules. Why should he carry the household while Oliver lived like royalty? Couldn’t his brother lift a finger? His parents waited for us for months to repair the chicken coop or paint the gate, even though Robert was perfectly capable. But Margaret wouldn’t let her precious Oliver be disturbed—oh no, the “scholar” mustn’t be distracted.
Thankfully, Edward finally saw it for what it was. He agreed—enough of being free labour. We stopped giving in to the guilt trips. When the bank holidays rolled around, despite Margaret’s relentless calls, we stayed home. And when we finally booked a proper holiday—by the sea, with sun and freedom—we told the family. Margaret exploded. She screamed down the phone that we *had* to come, that they needed help. Edward calmly asked what for. Turned out, they’d started renovating the house—and, of course, expected us to handle it.
That’s when my husband snapped. He said flatly, “You have another son. Maybe it’s his turn?” Margaret tried to argue—Oliver was *busy*, he had *studies*. But Edward reminded her how he’d worked himself ragged for the family while at university, because “Oliver was just a boy.” And now? Now Oliver was grown, yet still untouchable. “Mum, you have two sons,” he said before hanging up. “But it’s always felt like one was family, and the other was just… there.”
Less than a minute later, Margaret called me. Her voice shook with rage. She accused me of turning Edward against them, poisoning his heart, tearing him from his family. I let the tirade wash over me for a few seconds, then blocked her number without a word. And I don’t regret it.
If Edward were an only child, I’d be the first to insist we help. But when there are two sons—one treated like a king, the other like a servant—that’s not fairness. I refuse to let my husband feel like an outsider in his own family. And if that means cutting ties with Margaret, so be it. Our life isn’t their property. And we’ve finally chosen ourselves.
