My mother-in-law is convinced I destroyed the family by taking her son away from her.
Three years ago, I first met my husband’s family, and from the very beginning, it was clear: my Arthur had never received an ounce their affection. All their warmth and care went to their younger son, Daniel, while Arthur was little more than an afterthought—an errand boy, expected to jump at every demand. His mother doted on Daniel, sheltering him from even the slightest hardship as if he were some delicate treasure, while Arthur was treated as little more than a workhorse.
His parents, Margaret and James Wilson, lived in an old cottage on the outskirts of a lakeside village, a three-hour drive from our city. In a place like that, chores never end—fixing the roof, chopping firewood, tending the garden. There were chickens, cows, endless rows of vegetables—enough work for ten people. I was grateful we lived far away in our own flat, untouched by the chaos. And truthfully, Arthur was happier keeping his distance too. Yet every time he set foot in that house, they piled tasks onto him as if he were a hired hand, not their own son.
When we first married, Margaret lured us in with promises of idyllic village life—barbecues at sunset, walks in the woods, fresh air, and homegrown honey. Seduced by her stories, we decided to spend our first holiday there, dreaming of peaceful evenings by the fire, of silence broken only by birdsong. But reality crushed those hopes.
The moment we stepped off the bus, dusty and exhausted after the long journey, any notion of relaxation vanished. Arthur was handed a pair of old boots and sent to fix the shed while I was marched into the kitchen to face a mountain of dishes left behind from some family feast. Then came cooking for the lot of them—his parents, neighbours, relatives. A holiday? More like forced labour. In two weeks, we barely caught our breath. We managed one rushed barbecue between chores. Those woodland walks? Never happened. What grated most was Daniel’s behaviour. While Arthur and I dashed about like overworked packhounds, he lounged on the sofa, flicking through channels or scrolling on his phone. His daily routine was bed, fridge, loo—repeat. And Margaret watched him adoringly, as if he were the crown jewel of England.
By the fifth day, I snapped. That night, when we were finally alone, I asked Arthur, “What exactly does your brother do? Why is he excused from everything?” He sighed and called Daniel an “intellectual.” Apparently, manual labour wasn’t his destiny—mother was saving him for greater things. He was studying, you see, pouring all his energy into books. Never mind that he’d been at it for eight years, flunking out and re-enrolling. And Arthur? He’d always been the one to bail his parents out—mending fences, splitting logs, patching the roof. That was his role, long before I came along.
That trip was the final straw. I began pushing Arthur to question why he carried the family’s burdens while Daniel lived like royalty. Couldn’t his brother lift a finger? His parents waited months for us to fix the chicken coop or paint the gate—jobs his father could manage, but Margaret wouldn’t allow Daniel to be disturbed. He was “studying,” after all.
Thankfully, Arthur started seeing things differently. For the first time, he realised he was being used. Enough was enough. We agreed to stop giving in. When the next bank holiday rolled around, despite Margaret’s relentless calls, we didn’t go. Nor the holidays after that. And when we finally booked a real holiday—by the sea, with sun and freedom—we told his family. Margaret exploded. She shrieked down the phone that we had to come—they needed help. Calmly, Arthur asked what for. Turned out, they’d started home renovations—and, naturally, expected us to do the heavy lifting.
That’s when my husband had enough. He said plainly, “You have another son. Maybe it’s his turn?” She argued Daniel was too busy with studies, but Arthur reminded her how he’d worked himself ragged through university because “Daniel was too young.” And now? Now Daniel was grown, yet still untouchable. “Mum, you’ve got two sons,” he said finally. “But it’s always felt like one’s family, and the other’s just staff.” Then he hung up.
Within minutes, Margaret called me, her voice shaking with fury. She accused me of turning Arthur against them, poisoning his heart, tearing him from his family. I listened to her tirade for a few seconds before silently blocking her number. And I don’t regret it for a second.
Had Arthur been an only child, I’d have insisted we help. But when one son lives like a king and the other like a servant, that’s not family—that’s exploitation. I won’t let my husband be a stranger in his own home. And if that means cutting ties, so be it. Our lives aren’t theirs to command. Finally, we chose ourselves.
Some bonds aren’t worth keeping—especially when love comes with strings attached.
