Dear Diary,
I never imagined that the rare, coveted weekends Ive fought to steal from my hectic city life would turn into backbreaking labour that leaves my muscles screaming and tears prickling my eyes. A year ago I would have laughed at the thought, but now its my reality, and the culprit is my motherinlaw, the formidable Gertrude Clarke.
James and I have been married just over a year. Our wedding was modest money was tight, and in Manchester every pound counts. My parents helped us pull the strings for a small Victorian flat in the city centre. Its far from perfect, so weve been chipping away at renovations ever since: swapping out a leaky tap here, hanging fresh wallpaper there, fitting a new kitchen floor last month. Cash is perpetually short, and time is even scarcer.
Jamess parents own a sprawling farm in the Yorkshire Dales, complete with a garden, chickens, ducks, a goat and even two cows. They live on a piece of land that has been in the family since before the war, a project of their own making. We respect it, but its not our world.
Gertrude saw it differently. When she learned that we live in a cosy flat without a garden or chores, she promptly began inviting us over. At first it was just come for tea, but soon every Saturday and Sunday turned into a command: Come and help! Not a holiday retreat, but a manual labour sprint. The moment we stepped through the front door she thrust a broom, a spade or a bucket into our hands, flashed a smile, and sent us straight into the fields.
I tried to be a good soninlaw. James even tried to temper his mother: We have renovations, demanding jobs, little time. But Gertrudes obstinacy knows no bounds. You live like royalty in the city! All the work falls on me! she retorted. Fatigue meant nothing to her. What have you got to do in that tiny flat? We raised you; now you owe us! she declared.
One afternoon she handed me a bucket of water and a rag, demanding I mop the entire kitchen floor, the pantry and back to the shed while she cooked dinner. James was told to plane timber for a new henhouse. I tried to decline, saying I was exhausted from the week, but she wouldnt hear it. It was as if I were a paid hand whose refusal was unthinkable.
By Sunday night every muscle ached. On Monday I missed work. My boss was astonished Id never called in sick before and I lied that I felt ill, all thanks to a restful weekend at my motherinlaws. There was no joy, no gratitude only frustration and disappointment.
The worst part was the daily phone calls. When will you finally come? The garden wont weed itself! Gertrude would bark. When we explained that the flat was a construction site and we were worn out, she shot back, What are you building, a castle? Her audacity shocked me, especially when she said, I was counting on you, dear. As a woman you should learn to milk cows and grow veg itll do you good. I kept quiet, but inside I was boiling. I never wanted a life on a farm; I certainly didnt want to be milking cows or shovelling muck.
James stood by me. Hes as fed up as I am. He used to enjoy the drives to his parents place; now its just duty. He often lets her calls go to voicemail because theyre full of accusations. I keep searching for excuses not to go back.
Eventually I rang my own mother and poured everything out. She understood instantly. Help should be voluntary, she said. Youre not a free labour force for a young family. If you let them use you now, it will only get worse. Her words were a lifeline.
Im exhausted living a double life of city job and flat renovation, then farm labour on the weekend. All I crave is a simple weekend with a book or a film, not a shovel and muck.
James thinks we need an ultimatum: either Gertrude stops turning us into weekend workhorses, or we cut ties. It sounds harsh, perhaps, but we have our own lives, dreams, ambitions. We didnt sign up to be permanent handymen.
If anyone tells me, Thats normal, you must help your parents, Ill disagree. Help means being asked, not ordered. It means gratitude, not manipulation. It means choice, not a load of tasks shoved on you.
Perhaps the cold winter will dampen Gertrudes zeal, and I will finally be able to breathe. Ill remind myself that weekends exist for rest, not forced service.
Lesson learned: duties performed out of sheer obligation become a burden, and love cannot be forced with labour. You must draw your own boundaries; otherwise others will draw them for you.
