“We never signed up to be your servants!”—How my mother-in-law turns weekends into hard labour
If someone had told me a year ago that my rare, desperately awaited weekends would become nothing more than back-breaking toil, leaving me sore and on the verge of tears, I’d have laughed in their face. Yet here we are. All because my mother-in-law, the formidable Margaret Whitmore, decided that since Tom and I live in a flat with no garden, we must have no responsibilities and endless free time—therefore, we’re fair game for exploitation.
Tom and I got married just over a year ago. A modest affair—money was tight, and in our city, every penny counts. My parents helped us buy a one-bedroom flat, though it was in rough shape. We’d planned renovations from the start, slowly chipping away at it since spring: fixing the tap here, stripping wallpaper there, laying new lino in the kitchen. Never enough money, and even less time.
Meanwhile, Tom’s parents live in a countryside cottage—complete with a sprawling vegetable patch, chickens, ducks, goats, even two cows. They’re out in the sticks, clinging to their land like relics of another era. That’s their choice, their labour. We respected it, always figured everyone lives as they please.
But Margaret thought differently. The moment she learned we were “cosy flat-dwellers, free of dirt and toil,” she began summoning us like conscripted labour. First, it was just “popping round.” Then, like clockwork, every Saturday and Sunday: “Come and lend a hand.” Not to visit. Not to relax. Just work right out the gate—broom in one hand, hoe in the other. Smile, and off to the fields.
At first, I played along—fine, a couple of trips, show we care. Tom tried reasoning with her too: “We’ve got renovations, work’s brutal.” But Margaret’s stubbornness knows no bounds. “You lot in the city live like kings,” she’d snipe. “Meanwhile, I’m run ragged!” Exhaustion meant nothing to her. “What on earth do you even do in that tiny flat?” she’d huff. “We raised you—now you owe us!”
Honestly, I tried to be the good daughter-in-law. Keep the peace. But it all came to a head one visit when, the second we stepped inside, Margaret shoved a bucket and mop into my hands. “While I make the stew, scrub the floors—all the way to the shed and back,” she ordered. “And tell Tom to plane those planks—the chicken coop won’t fix itself.” I pleaded fatigue, but she just marched off, as if I were some hired help who’d dared refuse.
By Sunday night, I ached everywhere. Monday? I overslept. My boss was stunned—I never miss work, yet there I was, calling in sick. All thanks to a “relaxing” weekend at Mother-in-Law’s. No joy, no gratitude—just resentment simmering under my skin.
The worst part? Tom and I had said it a hundred times—we’re busy, exhausted, buried under renovations! Yet Margaret kept ringing daily: “Well? When are you coming? The potatoes won’t plant themselves!” We’d explain, and she’d snap, “What sort of renovation takes three months? Building a whole new house?”
Her audacity stunned me. Especially when she outright said, “I counted on you. You’re the woman—ought to learn to milk cows, plant cabbages. It’ll serve you later.” I bit my tongue, but inside, I boiled. I never wanted to be a farmer. I’m not obligated to know how to shovel manure.
Tom stood by me. He’d grown weary too. Once, he’d visited gladly; now, it was pure obligation. He started dodging her calls—every one laced with guilt. Meanwhile, I scrambled for excuses, dreading the next summons.
Finally, I rang my mum and spilled everything. She backed me completely. Said help should be given freely, not demanded. That letting them treat us like unpaid labour now would only make it worse.
I’m so tired. This double life—city grind and renovations, then weekend serfdom—is crushing me. I just want to sleep. To curl up with a book, not a shovel.
Tom’s talking ultimatums now. Either his mum stops this, or we step back. It might sound harsh, but we’ve got our own lives. We never signed up to be perpetual farmhands.
And sure, some will say “It’s tradition,” “You must help family”—but help is asked for, not commanded. It’s met with thanks, not guilt. It respects your time, doesn’t hijack it.
Maybe winter will freeze Margaret’s demands solid. And finally—finally—I’ll breathe easy, remembering weekends are for resting, not servitude.
