Auntie’s endless demands — and how my mother-in-law gave her blessing
I’m not some hysterical woman, the sort who nags her husband over every little thing, tracks his steps, or rifles through his phone. I work, raise my children, and stand by him when things get tough. But even patience has its limits. Sooner or later, even the most tolerant woman reaches her breaking point. And mine came—right after Auntie Mary’s phone call.
My name is Diana. I’m thirty-six. Married to Eugene for nearly a decade. We have two sons, Thomas and Daniel, both in school. We live in a flat left to us by my mother-in-law, who moved in with her daughter. Over there, my sister-in-law already has three kids on top of expecting a fourth. On top of that, we’ve got a mortgage on a tiny one-bed flat, eating up a good chunk of our wages each month. I work as a nurse; Eugene’s in construction. We’re not living large, but we manage. We hardly visit our parents—just no time. So I took leave over Christmas, dreaming of ice-skating, cinema trips, finally catching up with friends. But no such luck.
Eugene has an aunt—Mary, his mother’s sister. My mother-in-law’s alright: calls sparingly, doesn’t meddle. But Mary? A whole different story. The moment her fuse blows, her chair creaks, or so much as a snowflake falls—Eugene gets summoned. And off he sprints, like a faithful hound. Always something—sparking plugs, a wardrobe collapsing, furniture that just *has* to be hauled away.
This time? Boxing Day. Kids bundled up, cinema tickets bought, skates in the boot. Then—Eugene’s face shifts.
“Auntie Mary called,” he says. “Got to go help shift some furniture. Called Victor too—he’ll meet me there.”
“You’re joking,” I say. “We had plans!”
“Go without me,” he brushes me off. “Mum rang as well—asked me to. Her old armchairs, too heavy. Auntie’s got a bad back, can’t do it herself. Hiring movers is expensive. Come on, Diana, just this once…”
*Just this once*. Always that. *Just once* for repairs, *just once* to paint the fence, *just once* to shovel snow, *just once* to assemble a cupboard. And as for his own kids missing out? Well, that’s *my* job—explaining why Dad’s never there, again.
I said nothing. Just got in the car with the boys. If the day was ruined, at least we’d get some fresh air. Arrived. Auntie Mary hadn’t expected us. She grimaced.
“What’re *you* lot doing here? The car’ll be overloaded—I need to get to the cottage. Armchairs need taking…”
“Brilliant,” I say. “Stay here, then. Plans are scrapped anyway—kids might as well play outside.”
She huffed but stayed quiet. We drove to the cottage. The boys hurled themselves into the snow, laughing properly for once. Then—her call.
“Snow’s waist-deep,” Auntie Mary snaps. “My boys and their wives are coming to stay. Clear the drive—*now*.”
That’s when something inside me *snapped*. I screamed down the phone:
“You’ve got two grown sons! Let them and their wives shovel it! Came for a good time? They can *work* for it! We’re not your unpaid servants!”
I slammed the phone down. Wrenched Eugene’s from his hand, hurled it into the snow. It died. Then I turned on him—years of fury boiling over:
“NEVER. AGAIN. You’re a *husband* and *father*, not her on-call labourer! And tell Victor to go home to *his* wife—enough playing serf to your family!”
We left. Kids happy—played in the snow at least. Me? Hollow, but calm. Hours later, my mother-in-law rings.
“You’ve upset poor Mary!” she wails. “She’s in tears, had to take Valium! Headache, blood pressure—Diana *shouted* at her! Her sons’ wives would *never* behave like this!”
Me? For the first time in years, I said—calmly:
“Did you know, Margaret, your sister has *never once* asked her sons for help? Too good for that, is she? But my *husband*? Oh, he’s just *nearby*—fair game. Well—NOT ANYMORE.”
I hung up. Not rudely. Firmly.
Since then? Silence. Auntie Mary doesn’t call. If we pass her in the street? A stiff nod, nothing more. *Good*.
Thing is—people fear speaking up. Fear causing offence, fear the fallout. Not me. I’ve swallowed it for years. Now? Enough.
Yes, such relatives exist. Give them an inch, they’ll take an arm. So don’t hesitate. Don’t let them wipe their boots on you. Respect starts with boundaries. Fail to set them? You’ll be erased.
That’s my story. What do you think—did I do right? Or should I have kept quiet and taken it?
