**Diary Entry**
In a quiet market town nestled in the heart of Yorkshire, where cobbled streets and red-brick cottages guard generations of family secrets, my life has become a relentless battle against my mother-in-law’s entitlement and my husband’s spoilt nature. I, Eleanor, married a man I loved, only to find myself trapped in a household ruled by their selfish habits and expectations. My mother-in-law, Margaret, raised her son like a prince, while I was reduced to a maid in their home, and the weight of it has left my heart aching.
Margaret is a woman of fifty-three, youthful for her age, but her indulgence is beyond words. Her late husband was a well-off solicitor, and she grew accustomed to comfort. She married him straight out of university and never worked a day in her life—living like a queen, accustomed to luxury. Their son, my husband Thomas, became the centre of her world. She spoiled him rotten: bought him whatever he wanted, catered to every whim, even picking up his socks after him. I learned all this too late, after becoming part of their family.
When Thomas and I married, I was happy. He seemed kind, attentive, with a stable job as an architect. We moved into his parents’ grand Victorian townhouse—inherited by Margaret from her husband. I thought it was temporary, until we saved enough for our own place. But reality turned into a nightmare. Margaret, used to giving orders, made it clear from the start that I was nobody in *her* home.
From day one, she treated me like hired help. “Eleanor, clear Thomas’s plate, he’s had a long day,” she’d say while my husband lounged in front of the telly. “Eleanor, make him shepherd’s pie, it’s his favourite.” I tried to push back: “Margaret, I work too—I’m a teacher, I’m just as tired.” She’d just scoff. “You’re his wife now, that’s your duty.” Her words cut like a knife, but worse was Thomas’s silence—agreeing with her without a word.
Thomas, raised on adoration, was utterly helpless. He couldn’t even make himself tea—expected me or his mother to do it. If I asked him to help with the hoovering, he’d blink and say, “Why? Mum always handled it.” Margaret only fuelled it, complaining I “couldn’t keep house” and “didn’t look after her boy properly.” I felt like an outsider in their world, where my efforts went unseen.
It got worse when I fell pregnant. I hoped Margaret might soften, but she only tightened her grip. “Pregnancy isn’t an illness,” she’d snap. “I managed everything myself.” She insisted I keep cooking, cleaning, and waiting on Thomas while she took tea in the garden with her friends. Thomas, instead of standing by me, just parroted, “Mum knows best, Eleanor, don’t argue.” I cried myself to sleep, feeling my love for him wither under his mother’s shadow.
One day, I snapped. After another dinner where Margaret criticised my roast and Thomas said nothing, I packed a bag and left for my friend’s. “I’m not your servant!” I shouted. “If you won’t be a man in your own home, I’m done!” Margaret just smirked. “We’ll find someone more *agreeable*.” But Thomas’s words crushed me: “Eleanor, come back—Mum needs you.” Not *I* need you—*Mum* does.
My friend, seeing me in tears, urged me to talk plainly to Thomas: “If he won’t choose you, there’s no future.” I went back but gave an ultimatum: either we move out and live independently, or I file for divorce. Thomas promised to think, but I saw the fear in his eyes—terrified of defying Margaret. When she heard, she exploded. “You’re bleeding my son dry? This house is his inheritance!” Her greed and control over Thomas were killing me.
Now I’m at a crossroads. The baby complicates everything—I won’t raise a child where I’m disrespected. I love Thomas, but his spinelessness is destroying us. Margaret still reigns, and I feel like a ghost in their lives. My soul aches from the exhaustion and hurt. I dreamed of a happy marriage, but I’m trapped—just a maid for a spoiled man and his overbearing mother.
Every day, I ask myself: Do I fight for Thomas, or walk away to save myself and my child? The neighbours whisper that Margaret’s always had him wrapped around her finger, and I’m not the first to suffer. But I won’t give in. I want my life back—my voice, my worth. This grand house has become my prison, and I must find the strength to break free, even if it breaks my heart.
**Lesson learned:** Love isn’t enough when respect is absent. A man who won’t stand by his wife isn’t a husband—just a boy still tied to his mother’s apron strings.