All I dream of now is escaping this “mother” who leaves no peace for herself or me.
Each stage of life brings its own idea of rest. As a child, I’d count down to summer holidays with giddy anticipation: Mum and Dad would take time off work, and we’d spend days picnicking by the lake, laughing, living slowly. Later, my first job reshaped rest into stolen moments—a cuppa with mates, strolls through the park, rare evenings curled with a book. Now, rest feels like a myth. Something as distant as a foggy whisper.
My name is Emily Carter. I’m thirty-six, and for nine years, I’ve been drowning in burnout. It began when my husband, James, and I moved in with his mother after our wedding—supposedly “just until we saved enough.” A decade later, we’re still here, trapped in her immaculate three-bed semi in Cheltenham, where every breath feels borrowed.
On paper, it’s enviable: a garden, good schools nearby, James’ steady job. But happiness? None. Because I’m a guest in this house. Because his mother, Margaret, hovers like a shadow, dismissing my exhaustion, my choices, my very self.
To James, it’s bliss—two women orbiting him. I cook, clean, sprint to school runs, juggle remote work, repeat. Margaret critiques, monitors, interjects. He? Acts like a hotel guest: eats, flops on the sofa, remote in hand. No “cheers” or “need a hand?” Why? His mum never asked. “She managed alone—so can you,” he muttered once, eyes glued to his phone.
I can’t anymore.
Margaret boasts of raising two sons solo, balancing work and home like medals on a uniform. Never mentions her husband left her for someone “less worn.” Now she’s riddled with arthritis and bitterness, baffled by “why?” The answer’s plain: she never spared herself—or anyone else.
Her religion? Relentless toil, especially at her allotment. “Proper living comes from the soil!” she declares. Apples, carrots, jars of chutney—all hand-grown, not for joy, but duty. As daughter-in-law, I’m conscripted. Refuse? “Lazy.” Complain? “Weak.”
Last week, we hauled sacks of potatoes and onions from her plot. Margaret limped; I swayed under the weight. James? Didn’t budge from the telly. Didn’t glance up. As if we were pack mules.
That night, something snapped. Sat filthy and weeping at the kitchen table, I realised: I’m ninety, not thirty-six. No marrow or beetroot is worth this. I want weekends. Mornings without alarms. Quiet.
I’ve decided: I’m leaving. Taking the kids to my parents in Bristol. No more waiting for change. *I’ll* change. I’m done playing martyr. Done proving myself to Margaret. I’m enough.
Soon, I’ll tell James: choose—Mum’s allotment or a family crumbling under her “standards.” Health isn’t just organic veg. It’s peace. Space. Freedom.
I won’t become a woman waking up at sixty, riddled with ailments, wondering, “What for?” I’ll buy veg at Waitrose. Spend weekends cycling with the kids, picnicking in Hyde Park, ice creams melting. Where the air smells of grass and laughter, not sweat and soil.
