**Diary Entry**
For years, I tried my best to get along with my mother-in-law. Eight long years of biting my tongue and making the best of a bad situation. Ever since my husband and I moved from the countryside to London, his motherMargaret Whitmorerang us every weekend without fail. Always the same old song: *”Come round this weekend, we need a hand!”* Sometimes it was sorting potatoes, other times digging the garden, or helping her youngest daughter hang wallpaper. And every time, we went. Like puppets on strings.
But Im not twenty anymore, and life isnt a walk in the park. I work five days a week, raise two kids, and keep the house running. I deserve a break tooeven just a Sunday to catch my breath.
To Margaret, though, we were free labour. If I dared show the slightest tiredness, shed snap, *”Well, who else will do it?”* Fine. But it was never a real emergency. Once, she told me not to come to hers only to send me to her daughter, Sophie, to repaint her living room. Like a fool, I went. And guess what? While I ran around with a tape measure and brush, *Princess Sophie* lounged in front of the mirror, admiring her fresh manicure and boiling the kettle for the umpteenth time.
My husband saw it all. He wasnt dafthe knew we were being taken for granted. But he never said a wordshe was his mother, after all. So I kept quiet. Until one day
That Saturday, I simply stopped going with him. No drama. No explanation. I stayed home, insisting I had other plans.
Naturally, Margaret wasnt pleased. She grilled her sonwhy was I suddenly so *”ungrateful”*? My husband begged me to go, *”Just to keep her happy.”* 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 for themselves. I saw no gratitude, no respect. Just demands.
That weekend, I finally looked after my own home. I washed the piled-up 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.
Sophie.
No hello, no courtesyjust a stream of fury. I was selfish, rude, a traitor to the family. She reminded me of my *”duty”*since I was *”part of it now.”*
I listened, wished her a pleasant day, and shut the door.
But it didnt end there. That evening, Margaret stormed in. Before shed even taken off her coat, she accused me of ingratitude, of disrespectafter *”all shed done”* for me. I stared at her, remembering every hour Id spent cooking, cleaning, gardening.
And there she stood, lecturing me.
Enough.
Without a word, I opened the door and showed her out. Stunned, she muttered as she left. I went back to my book, and for the first time in years I breathed.
It wasnt anger. It was freedom. The certainty that my time belonged only to me. And if I owed anyone anything it was to myself, and my children.
That night, I fell asleep with a light heart. Finally free.
