How the Mother-in-Law Turns the Weekend into a Trial

Hey love, you wont believe what my weekends have turned into. A year ago Id never have imagined that my rare, coveted days off would end up feeling like a fullbody workout, muscles screaming and tears welling up but thats exactly where Im at now, thanks to my motherinlaw, Geraldine Clarke.

Mark and I have been married just over a year. We had a modest ceremony, pennies were tight and every pound counted in our little flat in a tower block out in Manchester. My parents helped us move into a crackedup Victorian flat that needed work, so weve been chipping away at it slowly: a new tap here, wallpaper there, fresh flooring in the kitchen. Money is always short and time even tighter.

Marks folks, on the other hand, own a proper country house in the Cotswolds with a huge garden, chickens, ducks, a goat and even two cows. Its the kind of place you see in those old postcards, families still holding onto land theyve tended since forever. Were happy for them, but its not our world.

Geraldine saw things differently. As soon as she heard we were living the city life, no garden, no chores, she started flooding us with invitations. At first it was just come over for a cuppa, but soon every Saturday and Sunday turned into a command: Come and help! Not relax or have a break, but work. The moment we stepped foot in her place shed hand us a broom, a spade or a bucket and flash a smile that said, Lets get stuck in.

I tried to play nice at first, thinking a few afternoons of help would show were part of the family. Mark tried to set some boundaries, saying were busy with renovations, long jobs, the lot. Geraldine, though, is relentless. You live like royalty in the city! shed shout. Everything here falls on me alone! She didnt care about fatigue. What else can you do in that tiny flat? We raised you, now you give back!

I wanted to be a good daughterinlaw, avoid a fight. Then one visit she thrust a bucket of water and a rag into my hands: While Im making soup, you scrub the whole floor from the kitchen to the shed and back. And Mark, youll saw some boards; the chicken coop needs fixing. I tried to decline, say I was exhausted from the week, but she wouldnt hear a word. It was as if I were a paid hand hired to obey.

By Sunday night every muscle ached. I called in sick on Monday, my boss was shocked Id never taken a sick day before. I blamed a stomach bug, but the truth was a relaxing weekend with my motherinlaw meant nothing but anger and disappointment.

The worst part was that no matter how many times we explained we had our own jobs, our flat was a construction site, Geraldine kept ringing: When are you coming? The garden wont weed itself! When we said we couldnt, she snapped back, What are you building over there that you cant finish? A castle? Her audacity was staggering, especially when she said, I was counting on you. Youre 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, never wanted to milk cows or scoop manure.

Mark stood by me hes fed up too. He used to love the drive out to the country, now its just duty. He usually lets her calls go to voicemail because theyre all complaints. I keep searching for excuses not to go back.

Eventually I rang my mum, spilled everything, and she got it straight away. Help should be voluntary, she said. Dont turn a young couple into free labour. If you keep letting them use you, itll only get worse.

Im exhausted from living two lives city job and flat renovations on one side, farm work on the other. All I want is a lazy weekend with a book or a film, not a shovel and mud.

Mark thinks we need an ultimatum: either Geraldine stops turning us into weekend labourers or we cut her off. It sounds harsh, maybe, but we have our own dreams, our own plans. We didnt sign up to be permanent handymen.

And if anyone tells us thats normal, you should help your parents, I wont argue. Help means being asked, not ordered. It means gratitude, not manipulation. It means you have a choice, not a stack of chores shoved on you.

Maybe the winter will cool Geraldines fire, and Ill finally be able to breathe. Ill remember that weekends are for rest, not forced service. In the end Ive learned you cant shoulder obligations out of sheer duty, and love cant be forced with work. Some boundaries you have to draw yourself, otherwise someone else will do it for you.