The holiday at my mother-in-law’s ended in a little revolution.
My name is Emily. I’m thirty-five, married to William, and we’ve got two kids. I’ve always been full of energy—ever since nursery, where I tried to get the whole class to join in morning exercises. At school, I was the one organising everything, and at uni, I was the life of every party. That drive must’ve come from my gran, who I spent every summer with in the countryside. I loved farm life and was never afraid of hard work.
That’s how I met William—I’d arranged a litter pick in the town park, and he was one of the few who showed up to help. We filled bags together, got chatting, then went for coffee. One thing led to another, and a year later, he proposed. I said yes without hesitation.
We lived with my parents at first, then saved up for our first mortgage. Our son came along—a dead ringer for his dad—and two years later, our daughter. William worked tirelessly but always made time to help at home, never once complaining. Me? I was burning out. Motherhood isn’t just joy—it’s sleepless nights, exhaustion, endless worry. He noticed and suggested I take the kids to his mum’s in the countryside for a break. Like a fool, I jumped at the idea, remembering how much I’d loved gran’s place. A chance to recharge.
William drove us down. His mum greeted us with fresh bread, even laid out a spread. The kids conked out on the sofa, and she made up a bed for me in her son’s old room. Perfect, I thought.
Then, at the crack of dawn, a shout jolted me awake:
“Still lazing about, madam? Up you get! The cow won’t milk herself!”
I checked my phone—5 a.m. Dragged myself up. Went to wash, but she cut in:
“Leave that—you’ll only get filthy again!”
I bit my tongue, changed, and followed her to the barn. She muttered the whole way—”city girl,” “no idea”—but when I grabbed the bucket and milked the cow quicker than she could, she shut up. After feeding the animals and scrubbing my hands, I faced her:
“I’ll help. But let me do things my way.”
“Fine, if you think you know better,” she huffed.
And I did. I weeded the garden, dug new beds, repainted the fence, sold milk and veg to neighbours, even built a compost heap and started laying pipes—the outdoor loo was long overdue an upgrade. When we dug the trench, she gasped:
“What in blazes is this?!”
“You said the water pressure was rubbish. Now you’ll have proper plumbing.”
She cracked. Snuck off to call William:
“Will, come get your wife. She’s running me ragged!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just come!”
I walked in as she stuffed her phone away, muttering, “Just saying my prayers, love…”
“Right. Then we’re sterilising jars. Picked cucumbers for pickling, cherries tomorrow, then apples. Already spoke to the neighbour.”
She sighed. Meanwhile, I carried on fixing up the place.
By week’s end, William arrived. His mum flung herself at him:
“Take her! I can’t keep up! She’s like a whirlwind—never stops! I’m the one needing a break now!”
William just shrugged.
“Mum, you wanted help. You got it.”
Leaving, she even teared up—not from sadness, more sheer exhaustion. I promised we’d visit next weekend.
“No rush,” she grumbled, slamming the car door.
Then, under her breath as she turned back to the house:
“Wish she’d just watch telly like a normal daughter-in-law…”
But I knew—she respected me now. Maybe even feared me a little.
