From the very beginning, I knew there would be no warmth for me in my husband’s family. The moment Oliver and I married, his sister Imogen made it clear I didn’t belong. I tried to bridge the gap, to smooth things over, to be helpful. But it was useless—like pounding my fists against a brick wall.
I work at a GP’s surgery—reception, mostly, with some shifts in referrals and appointments. More than once, I’ve helped his family—jumping queues, pulling strings with doctors, arranging things so they wouldn’t have to pay a penny. Some said thank you; others stayed silent. I never minded. After all, family’s family, isn’t it?
Imogen exploited me the most. She knew I had a car, and she was always asking for lifts—never for anything important, just to the shops, the hairdresser’s, or some friend’s house. Even on weekends—ringing at nine on a Saturday, chirping, *”Be a love and drop me across town, won’t you? It’s urgent.”* Never once wondering if I wanted to sleep in, if I had my own life. She had a husband with a car too, but for some unfathomable reason, *I* was her personal chauffeur.
She dragged Oliver into her messes as well. One call from her, and he’d drop everything and bolt. I tried talking to him, begging him to stand his ground, but he’d just say, *”You wouldn’t understand—you’re an only child.”* As if blood gave her some sacred right to our time.
Family gatherings were their own special torment. Everyone exchanged trinket gifts—*I* gave to all of them. Never once did I receive so much as a handkerchief in return. As if I were invisible. As if my time, petrol, and sanity meant nothing.
Two years ago, Imogen needed surgery. I called in every favour I had in the medical field—arranged surgeons, covered every cost. I didn’t do it for thanks. But when someone can’t even muster a *”cheers,”* it stings. Especially when you know her own mother couldn’t have pulled half those strings for her.
Then *I* ended up in hospital—an emergency procedure. Guess who from his family rang to check on me? Not a soul. Imogen *did* call, though. Not out of concern. She urgently needed a photocopy of some document. She knew I was in the operating theatre, but that didn’t stop her. The thought of waiting—or asking someone else—never crossed her mind. So much for *family.*
Time passed. I recovered. Then came his uncle’s birthday party. Everyone was there. Everyone *but Imogen* greeted me, made small talk. She? The moment she saw me, she flounced out of the room like I had the plague. Not a single word since *that* call. A year. A whole *year* of silence—over a bloody piece of paper.
I’m done being convenient. Done being their unpaid errand girl. I may not have family of my own, but I won’t be their doormat anymore. Enough. I’m tired. I don’t owe them a thing.
