I found myself in proper trouble, I tell you—I became a slave in my husband’s family.
In a forgotten village near York, where the wind carries the scent of freshly cut hay, my life, which began with love, twisted into unbearable servitude. My name is Emily, I’m 28, and three years ago I married William. I thought I’d found a family, but instead, I became a modern Cinderella—a maid for my husband, his parents, and their entire clan. My soul screams in despair, and I don’t know how to escape this trap.
**A Love That Blinded Me**
When I met William, I was 25. He was from a nearby village—tall, with a kind smile and warm eyes. We met at a county fair, and his simplicity won me over. He spoke of family, children, and village life where everyone sticks together. Me, a city girl, dreamed of that cosiness. A year later, we married, and I moved to his village. I didn’t know then that this step would be my undoing.
William lived with his parents, Margaret and Henry, in a big house. His older brother and family, plus countless relatives, were always visiting. I thought I’d blend into their lives, become part of something grand. But from day one, it was clear—they didn’t want love, just labour. *”You’re young and able, so best get to work,”* my mother-in-law said, and foolishly, I nodded, not realising what I’d signed up for.
**Servitude, Not Family**
My life became an endless cycle of chores. Up at dawn to cook breakfast for the lot of them—Henry likes porridge, Margaret demands fried eggs, William wants toast. Then it’s scrubbing the floors, laundry, tending the garden. By noon, the relatives arrive, and I’m making lunch for a horde—roast, mash, pudding. Evenings bring supper, washing up, and finally, I collapse, exhausted. Every day the same, no rest, no reprieve.
Margaret barks orders like a drill sergeant: *”Emily, you’re peeling potatoes wrong. Emily, the floors are still dirty.”* Henry says nothing, but his glare speaks: *”You’re nothing here.”* William’s relatives don’t even greet me—just sit at the table and wait to be served. And William, my own husband, instead of defending me, just mutters, *”Don’t argue with Mum, she knows best.”* His indifference stabs like a knife. I thought he’d protect me, but he’s part of the machine that grinds me down.
**The Breaking Point**
Last week, I snapped. When Margaret sneered at my stew and the relatives left a mountain of dirty dishes, I shouted, *”I’m not your skivvy! I’m a person too!”* The room froze. Then Margaret replied, icy, *”Don’t like it? Sod off back to your city. Too used to having it easy, I reckon.”* William stayed silent, and that broke me. I ran outside, sobbing, and realised—I’m trapped. Nowhere to go—no flat in the city, my mum’s too far. But staying means losing myself.
I barely recognise the girl I once was. Lively, groomed—now I look haggard, eyes dull. My mate Sarah gasped when she saw me: *”Emily, you look half-dead! Get out!”* But how do I leave when part of me still loves William? Or did I ever? His silence killed the love I walked down the aisle with. I’m drowning, and no one’s throwing a rope.
**A Secret Escape**
I’ve started dreaming of running. In secret, I stash away coins—whatever I can skim from groceries. Saving up for a flat in the city, a way out. But fear grips me—what will Mum say, who was so thrilled when I married? What happens to William? Can I even make it alone? And worse—I know Margaret and the lot would smear my name across the village. Their word here is law.
But yesterday, as I stood at the stove, enduring another scolding, I made a vow—*I will break free.* I’m no Cinderella, no servant. I’m young, I’m strong, and I’ll find a way. Maybe I’ll work remotely like Sarah, maybe finally train as a florist. But I won’t stay here where my life is just pots and orders.
**A Cry for Freedom**
This is my scream for help. I stumbled into hell by marrying a man whose family sees me as free labour. Margaret, Henry, the whole mob—they think I exist to serve. But I can’t take it anymore. William, the man I loved, is part of it, and that shatters me. I don’t know *how* to leave—but I know I *must.* At 28, I want to *live,* not just survive. Let my escape be my salvation—or my ruin.
