**Diary Entry – A Turning Point with My Mother-in-Law**
David and I have been married for two years now. Ours is an ordinary family—a flat in London, steady jobs, occasional weekends away in the countryside. Life would be peaceful if not for one persistent issue: my mother-in-law.
David grew up in a small village in Yorkshire, where his parents still live on a sprawling farm with livestock, crops, and endless chores. Naturally, it demands hard work—but his mother somehow believes it’s solely *our* duty to help.
Meanwhile, my own mum spends most of the year in her cosy little cottage in the Cotswolds, only returning to the city in winter. She never demands a thing from us, yet always greets us with scones, homemade jam, and fresh mint tea—her way of caring without expectation. My mother-in-law, however? She *orders* us to spend every weekend at theirs.
If we dare visit my mum instead, the guilt-tripping begins. Never mind that my mother-in-law has a daughter living right there with her husband. You’d think *they’d* be the ones helping. But no—somehow, it always falls to us.
One Saturday, we arrived at their farm at dawn. By six in the morning, I was yanked out of bed and marched straight to the barn, half-asleep. I thought perhaps they needed me to milk the cows. Wrong. She thrust a shovel into my hands and ordered me to muck out the stalls.
I’d had enough. “Why am *I* doing this,” I asked, “and not your son or your son-in-law?”
“My son works for *your* mother—he deserves a break!” she snapped. “And my son-in-law is exhausted from his job!”
So I was the idle one, apparently, fit only for unpaid labour. I couldn’t hold back. “Funny, we bring you vegetables and fruit from Mum’s garden, but when we’ve asked for eggs or meat, you claim you need it all—then I see you selling them at the market. Is *that* fair?”
Silence. I finished the wretched job, hoping for a rest—but no. Next, she demanded I clean the house *and* cook breakfast for the lot of them. Meanwhile, her daughter was still fast asleep upstairs.
That was the last straw. I grabbed my bag, got in the car, and drove back to London. David stayed behind. By evening, a text arrived: *”I’m filing for divorce. You disrespected my mother.”*
The world tilted. After all we’d been through, he chose *her*. But I wouldn’t beg. Heartbroken, I spent the weekend at my mum’s, walking through her garden, sipping tea with blackberry jam—and for the first time in ages, I felt peace.
When I returned home, he was there. Shoulders slumped, shame in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was wrong. They’ve been taking advantage of me. My sister and her husband do nothing—I finally see it.”
I listened silently. Forgiveness didn’t come at once—but it did come. Because he chose *me*. He came back. He understood.
Days later, my mother-in-law called, screeching accusations down the line. I let her rant, then hung up. No shouting back. Just quiet resolve: she would *not* wreck my home again.
Now, we live on our own terms. David helps his parents—when he can, without sacrificing *us*. And I’m no longer the woman who stayed silent.
Let her tend her farm however she likes. My priority now is simpler: guarding my family—and my peace.
**Lesson learned:** Love shouldn’t mean endless sacrifice. Sometimes, setting boundaries is the kindest thing you can do—for yourself, and for the ones who truly matter.