**A Diary Entry Breaking Free**
For years, I tried to get along with my mother-in-law. Since the start of my marriage, Id bitten my tongue and made the best of it. After my husband and I moved from the countryside to London, his motherMargaret Whitakerstarted calling every weekend without fail. The same old tune: *”Come round this weekend, we need help!”* Sometimes it was sorting potatoes, other times digging the garden, or even helping her youngest daughter, Gemma, hang wallpaper. And every time, we went. Like puppets on a string.
But Im not twenty anymore, and life isnt a bed of roses. I work five days a week, raise two children, and run a household. Dont I deserve a breakeven just a Sunday to catch my breath?
To Margaret, though, we were free labour. The moment I showed the slightest weariness, shed snap, *”Well, who else will do it?”* Fine. But it was never a real emergency. Once, she asked me not to come to her houseonly to send me straight to Gemmas to repaint her living room. Like a fool, I went. And guess what? While I measured and painted, *Princess* Gemma lounged in front of her mirror, admiring her fresh manicure and boiling the kettle for the hundredth time.
My husband saw it all. He wasnt blindhe knew we were being used. But he never said a word. She was his mother, after all. So I kept quiet. Until one Saturday, I simply stopped going. No fuss, no explanation. I stayed home, insisting I had other plans.
Naturally, Margaret wasnt pleased. She immediately cornered her sonwhy was I suddenly so *”ungrateful”*? My husband begged me to go, *”just to keep the peace.”* But Id had enough of the charade.
Im thirty-five. I have the right to rest, not to serve people who wont lift a finger themselves. I saw no gratitude, no respectjust demands.
That weekend, I finally tended to my own home. I washed the mountain of laundry, cooked a proper meal, and on Sunday I treated myself to a book, stretched out on the sofa. Pure bliss. Until the doorbell rang.
Gemma.
No hello, no courtesyjust venom. I was selfish, rude, a traitor to the family. She reminded me of my *”duty”*since I was *”part of it.”*
I listened, wished her a good day, and shut the door.
But it didnt end there. That evening, Margaret stormed in. The moment she stepped inside, she accused me of ingratitude, of disrespectafter all shed *”done for us.”* I stared at her, remembering all those hours spent cooking, cleaning, gardening.
And there she stood, lecturing me.
Enough.
Without a word, I opened the door and pointed her out. Stunned, she muttered before leaving. I returned to my book and, for the first time in years I breathed.
It wasnt anger. It was freedom. The certainty that my time belonged to me alone. And if I owed anyone anything it was to myself, and to my children.
That night, I fell asleep with a light heart. Finally free.
