Oh, I’ve landed myself in a right mess, I’ll tell you—I’ve become a slave in my own husband’s family.
In this tiny village out near Yorkshire, where the wind carries the smell of freshly cut hay, my life—once full of love—has turned into unbearable servitude. My name’s Emily, I’m 28, and three years ago I married James. I thought I’d found my family, but instead, I’ve ended up like some modern-day Cinderella—a maid for my husband, his parents, and the whole lot of them. My soul’s screaming with despair, and I’ve no idea how to break free from this trap.
### The Love That Blinded Me
When I met James, I was 25. He was from a nearby village—tall, with a kind smile and warm eyes. We met at the county fair, and his down-to-earth nature won me over. He talked about family, kids, life in the countryside where everyone sticks together. Me, a city girl, I dreamed of that cosy life. A year later, we got married, and I moved to his village. Little did I know that step would seal my fate.
James lived with his parents, Margaret and Richard, in a big house. His older brother and his family, plus a load of relatives, were always dropping by. I thought I’d fit right in, become part of a big, loving family. But from day one, I realised—they didn’t want love from me, just work. *”You’re young, capable, so you’d best get on with it,”* my mother-in-law said, and like a fool, I nodded, not grasping what I’d signed up for.
### Slavery, Not Family
My life became an endless cycle of chores. Up at five to cook breakfast for the whole household—Richard wants porridge, Margaret likes scrambled eggs, James has toast. Then there’s cleaning this massive house, laundry, the garden. By midday, relatives turn up, and I’m cooking lunch for a crowd—mince and mash, roast chicken, custard for afters. Evenings are more cooking, more washing up, and by night, I collapse, exhausted. Every single day, no breaks, no rest.
Margaret, she barks orders like a sergeant major: *”Emily, you’re peeling those potatoes wrong,”* *”Emily, you’ve not done the floors properly.”* Richard says nothing, but his look says it all: *”You’re nothing here.”* James’s family come over, don’t even say hello—just sit at the table and wait for me to serve them. James, my own husband, instead of backing me up, just says, *”Mum knows best, love.”* His indifference cuts like a knife. I thought he’d be my protector, but he’s part of this system where I’m the unpaid help.
### The Breaking Point
The other day, I snapped. When Margaret tore into my soup and the relatives left a mountain of dirty dishes, I shouted, *”I’m not your servant! I’m a person too!”* Everyone froze, and Margaret just said, cold as ice, *”Don’t like it? Go back to your city. Spoiled, you are.”* James didn’t say a word, and that finished me. I ran outside, sobbing, and realised—I’m trapped. Nowhere to go—no home in the city, my mum’s miles away. But staying means losing myself.
I’ve noticed how I’ve changed. I used to be lively, took care of myself. Now I look worn out, my eyes dead. My best mate, Sophie, saw me and gasped: *”Emily, you look ten years older! Get out of there!”* But how? I still love James—or do I? His silence, his passiveness, it’s killed the love I walked into this marriage with. I’m drowning, and no one’s reaching out a hand.
### A Secret Plan
I’ve started dreaming of escape. On the sly, I’ve been stashing away bits of money—whatever I can scrape together from the housekeeping. I want enough to rent a flat in town and leave this nightmare. But fear’s got me by the throat—what’ll Mum say? She was so happy when I got married. What’ll happen to James? How will I manage alone? And I’m terrified Margaret and the rest will drag my name through the mud. Their word’s law around here.
But yesterday, standing at the cooker, listening to yet another rant, I made myself a promise—I’ll get out. I’m no Cinderella, no servant. I’m young, I’ve got strength, and I’ll find a way. Maybe I’ll work from home like Sophie does, maybe I’ll finally chase my dream of opening a little flower shop. But I won’t stay here, where my life is just pots, pans, and orders.
### A Cry for Freedom
This is my cry for help. I’ve landed in a right mess, married into a family that sees me as free labour. Margaret, Richard, the lot of them—they think I’m here to serve. But I can’t do it anymore. James, the man I loved, is part of this machine, and it’s tearing me apart. I don’t know how to leave, but I know I must. At 28, I want to *live*, not just exist. My escape might save me—or it might break me. But I’ve got to try.
