The “Holiday” at Mum-in-Law’s Ended in a Mini Revolution
My name is Emily. I’m thirty-five, married to William, and we have two children. I’ve always been lively and restless—ever since nursery, where I tried organising morning exercises for the whole group. In school, I was the class rep, the one who got things moving, and at university, the life of every gathering. My energy must’ve come from my nan, who I spent every summer with in the countryside. I adored rural life and was never afraid of hard work.
That’s how I met William—I’d arranged a park clean-up, and he was one of the few who turned up to help. We picked up rubbish together, got talking, then went to the cinema. And that’s how it all began. A year later, he proposed, and I happily said yes.
At first, we lived with my parents, then saved enough for our first mortgage. Our son came along—the spitting image of his dad—then two years later, our daughter. William worked tirelessly but always made time to help at home, never once complaining. But I started burning out. Motherhood isn’t just joy—it’s sleepless nights, constant exhaustion, endless worries. My husband noticed and suggested the kids and I take a break at his mum’s in the countryside. Naively, I jumped at the idea, remembering how peaceful it was at my nan’s. I hoped to recharge.
William drove us there, and his mum welcomed us with tea and cake, even laid out a proper spread. The kids fell asleep on the porch, and she made up a bed for me in her son’s old room. A perfect evening, you’d think. But at the crack of dawn, a shout jolted me awake:
“Still asleep, madam? Up you get! The cows won’t milk themselves!”
I checked my phone—5 a.m. Dragged myself out of bed, wanting to wash up, but she tutted:
“Leave that—you’ll only get filthy again anyway!”
I bit my tongue, changed, and headed to the barn. She muttered the whole way—”city girl,” “no idea what she’s doing”—but when I grabbed the bucket and milked faster than she could, she went quiet. After feeding the animals and washing up, I turned to her:
“I’m happy to help. But let me do things my way.”
“Fine, if you think you know better,” she huffed.
And so I got to work. Tidied the vegetable patch, weeded the beds, repainted the fence, set up a stall to sell milk and veg to neighbours, even built a compost heap and started laying pipes—the outdoor loo was long overdue for an upgrade. When we dug the trench, she threw up her hands:
“What in blazes is this?!”
“Mum, you’ve moaned about the water pressure for years. Now you’ll have proper plumbing.”
That’s when she cracked and rang William in secret:
“Will, come get your wife. She’s running me ragged!”
“What’s happened?”
“You’ll see when you get here.”
When I walked in, she shoved her phone away and mumbled:
“Just saying my prayers, love…”
“Lovely. Then you can sterilise the jars. I’ve picked cucumbers—we’re making pickles. Tomorrow it’s cherries, then apples. Already sorted it with the neighbour.”
She just sighed. Meanwhile, I carried on revamping the place with fresh energy.
By week’s end, William arrived. His mum rushed to him:
“Take her back! I can’t keep up! She’s like a whirlwind—never stops! I’m the one needing help now!”
William just shrugged:
“Mum, you wanted help. You got it.”
As we left, she even teared up—not from sadness, more from sheer exhaustion. I promised we’d visit next weekend.
“Don’t rush,” she grunted, slamming the car door.
Then, thinking no one heard, she turned to the house and muttered:
“Wish she’d just watch telly like normal daughters-in-law…”
But despite it all, I knew—she respected me now. And maybe, just a little, she was afraid.
