My mother-in-law curses me for stealing her son, the one who refused to bow to her whims.
Three years ago, I first set foot in my husband’s family home, and from the moment I crossed the threshold, I knew—my Steven had never belonged in that nest of favoritism. Every ounce of his mother’s affection went to his younger brother, Oliver, while Steven was treated like a ghost—a perpetual servant, expected to leap at her every command. Oliver, meanwhile, basked in adoration: coddled, shielded like some fragile heirloom, never lifting a finger to help.
The in-laws, Margaret and Edward Harrington, lived in a sprawling cottage on the edge of a village surrounded by endless fields and a winding river. In a place like that, chores never ended—the porch always needed fixing, the shed was forever crumbling, the garden overrun with weeds. And then there were the chickens, the goats, the vegetable patch—work enough for an entire crew. I thanked my stars that Steven and I lived far away in London, a good four hours from their little kingdom. He had always been relieved by the distance, too. But the moment he stepped back into that house, an avalanche of tasks buried him, as though he weren’t a son, but some hired hand working for scraps.
When we first moved in together, Margaret spun us tales of an idyllic countryside paradise—bonfires under the stars, fishing by the river, fresh air and homemade cider. Foolishly, we believed it, deciding to spend our first holiday together in their village. We dreamed of peace, of long evenings by the water, of silence broken only by rustling leaves. But reality shattered those dreams the moment we stepped off the train.
Barely through the door, still aching from the journey, our rest turned to dust. Steven was handed a pair of torn wellies and sent to repair the fence. I, meanwhile, was shoved straight to the kitchen table, where a mountain of potatoes and crusted bowls from some long-finished feast awaited. Then came the cooking—endless meals for the whole circus: his parents, their friends, distant relatives. That two-week break became a prison. We managed one fire—just to grill meat for the guests. Steven never so much as dipped a toe in the river. But nothing enraged me more than Oliver’s behavior. While Steven and I rushed around like hunted animals, he sprawled on the porch with his phone or slept until noon, his life a rotation of three places: sofa, kitchen, loo. And all the while, Margaret gazed at him with reverence, as though he were her only hope.
By the seventh day, I cracked. That night, finally alone, I whispered to Steven, “Why does your brother do nothing? What does he actually *do* besides sleep?” My husband, staring blankly at the ceiling, muttered that Oliver was “going to be a genius.” Apparently, his mother believed he needed to conserve his energy for his studies—manual labor was beneath him. Those “studies,” mind you, had stretched nine years: kicked out one term, reinstated the next, failing over and over. And Steven? Year after year, he had been the fixer—patching roofs, chopping wood, digging the garden. Until I came along.
That holiday was the final straw. I started pushing Steven—why should he carry this weight while Oliver lived like a lord? Couldn’t his brother lift a finger? His parents waited months for us to visit, just to mend the stable or whitewash the walls, even though his father could’ve managed it. But Margaret guarded Oliver like treasure, refusing to let him so much as hold a broom.
To my relief, Steven listened. For the first time, he *saw* the injustice. Enough playing the rescuer. We vowed not to cave to the guilt trips. When May bank holiday rolled around, despite Margaret’s frantic calls, we stayed home. The same for every holiday after. And when we finally booked a real holiday—sun, sea, freedom—we told them. Margaret erupted like a volcano. She screamed that we’d abandoned the family, that they *needed* us. Steven coldly asked why. Turned out they’d started renovating the porch—and, naturally, expected us to finish it.
That’s when my husband snapped. “You’ve got another son,” he hissed. “Maybe it’s his turn?” Margaret stammered that Oliver was “too busy with his degree,” that he couldn’t be disturbed. But Steven reminded her how *he’d* slaved for them during uni because “Oliver was just a boy.” And now? Now Oliver was grown—yet still untouchable. “Mum, you’ve got *two* sons,” he said, voice thick with hurt. “But it’s always felt like one’s yours, and I’m just… the stranger.” Then he hung up.
Seconds later, my phone rang. Margaret’s voice trembled with fury and tears. She accused me of poisoning her son’s mind, of tearing their family apart, of *stealing* Steven from her. I hit *end* and blocked her number without a word. And you know what? Not a single regret.
Had Steven been an only child, I’d have been the first to insist we help. But when one son lives like a prince and the other like a pack mule—that’s not family. That’s exploitation. I won’t let my husband feel like an outcast in his own home. And if that means cutting ties? So be it. Our life is ours—and this time, we chose us.
