My Husband’s Aunt Took Advantage of Us—And Did It with His Mother’s Blessing
I’m not the hysterical type. Not the kind who nags her husband over every little thing, tracking his steps or checking his phone. I work, raise our children, and stand by him in tough times. But there’s a limit to everything. Even the most patient woman reaches a breaking point. And mine came after a call from Aunt Mary.
My name is Claire. I’m thirty-six. I’ve been married to James for nearly ten years. We have two sons—Oliver and Ethan, both in school. We live in a flat left to us by James’s mother, who moved in with her daughter. My sister-in-law already has three kids and is expecting a fourth. On top of that, we have a mortgage on a one-bedroom flat, which eats up a fair chunk of our earnings each month. I work as a nurse; James is at a construction firm. We’re not living large, but we manage. We rarely visit our parents—there’s just no time. So, I took leave over the Christmas holidays, dreaming of ice skating, cinema trips, and finally catching up with friends. But life had other plans.
James has an aunt—Mary, his mother’s sister. His mum is decent: calls occasionally, doesn’t interfere. But Mary is another story. The moment her light flickers, her chair squeaks, or snow falls, she rings James. And like clockwork, he drops everything and rushes over. It’s always something—sparking sockets, a wardrobe about to collapse, or furniture that urgently needs moving.
This time, it was the second day after Christmas. The boys and I were already dressed, cinema tickets bought, skates in the boot. Then James’s face changed.
“Aunt Mary called,” he said. “I’ve got to help move some furniture. I’ve already rang Dave—he’s coming too.”
“You can’t be serious,” I snapped. “We had plans!”
“You can go later,” he dismissed. “Mum rang as well—said I had to help. The armchairs are heavy, and Aunt Mary’s got a bad back. Hiring movers is too dear. Come on, Claire, just this once…”
*Just this once.* Always just once. Once for repairs, once for painting, once for shovelling snow, once for assembling a cupboard. Meanwhile, his wife can take the kids to the cinema alone, explain why Dad’s missing—again.
I silently got into the car, bringing the boys along. If the day was ruined, at least they’d get some fresh air. When we arrived, Aunt Mary wasn’t pleased to see us.
“What are *you* lot doing here?” she huffed. “You’ll overcrowd the car! I needed space—these armchairs are going to the cottage.”
“Perfect,” I replied. “You stay home. Our plans are scrapped anyway, so the boys might as well play outside.”
She scowled but said nothing. We drove to the cottage. The boys dashed into the snow, laughing for the first time in ages. Then the phone rang.
“There’s snow waist-deep here,” Aunt Mary announced. “My boys and their wives are coming to relax. Clear the driveway before they arrive.”
Something inside me snapped. I yelled into the phone:
“No. You’ve got two grown sons! Let them and their wives shovel! If they’ve come to enjoy themselves, they can work for it! Are we your unpaid servants?”
I hung up, snatched James’s phone, and hurled it into the snow. It died instantly. Then I turned on him, all the years of frustration boiling over:
“This STOPS NOW! You’re a husband and father, not her on-call labourer! And Dave—tell him to go home to his own wife. Enough of being her lackeys!”
We left. The boys were happy—they’d at least played in the snow. I was drained but calm. Hours later, James’s mother called.
“You’ve upset poor Mary!” she wailed. “She’s in tears, taking Valium, her blood pressure’s through the roof! Her daughters-in-law would *never* speak to her like that!”
For the first time in years, I replied coolly:
“Did you know, Margaret, that your sister *never* asks her own sons for help? She pampers them. But my husband? Oh, he’s fair game—just lives nearby, after all. Well, NOT ANYMORE.”
I hung up. Not rudely, but firmly.
Since then? Silence. Aunt Mary doesn’t call anymore. If we pass her in the street, she gives a stiff nod and walks on. And good riddance.
Here’s the thing—many people fear speaking up. They dread causing offence or starting a row. But I’m done fearing it. Years of patience ran out. Now? Enough is enough.
Some relatives are like this. Give them an inch, they’ll take a mile. So don’t hesitate. Don’t let them wipe their feet on you. Respect starts with boundaries. Fail to set them, and you’ll be walked over.
That’s my story. Was I right to stand my ground? Or should I have swallowed it again? You decide.