I kept silent when my pregnant sister-in-law made me her servant. But when my brother labeled me useless for not having children, everything changed. Then I stopped being a victim and planned my escape.
My name is Liz, 35. Tom and I married six months ago. He was a wonderful guy who made me laugh and brought me Sunday coffee in bed.
We had a nice home with a white picket fence and thoughts of children’s joy in the additional bedrooms.
Dreams don’t always come true.
We tried to conceive for four years. Hope, hormones, and heartache for four years. Month after month, enthusiasm turned to devastating disillusionment.
Fertility treatments cost more than our vehicle. Vitamins, diet changes, and three-state experts were used. Praying, counting days, and tracking my temperature.
Nothing worked.
Every time someone inquired, “When are you two having kids?” I wanted to disappear.
Early on, Tom was patient. I wept in his arms and he said we’d work it out. All the appropriate things were said.
Patience runs out.
One Tuesday morning, he muttered, “I can’t wait anymore,” staring at his newspaper.
Just like that.
He abandoned me like a failed effort.
“You mean what?” His distant glances and withdrawal from my contact foreshadowed my question.
Liz, I want kids. Real kids. Not only their hope, he stated frankly. “I can’t spend my life waiting for something that won’t happen.”
“We could adopt,” I muttered.
He gazed at me, and his frigid eyes shattered something I’m not sure will ever mend.
“I want my own kids,” he replied. “My blood.”
Six weeks later, he left. Moved in with his three-month-pregnant secretary.
His legacy. Something I couldn’t offer him.
Heartbroken, I returned to my parents, my sole true love.
They received me warmly, as expected.
Mom made my favorite foods and didn’t ask when I wept during supper. Dad changed my childhood bedroom door lock and didn’t mind when I remained inside for days.
A while, I felt secure.
Peace barely lasted two months.
Then my brother Ryan and his pregnant wife Madison moved in.
It was their new house across town that was being renovated.
Madison answered, “Just for a few weeks,” with a beautiful grin like she wanted something. “Until the baby is safe in the house.”
Always giving, my parents offered them the guest room and said not to worry about rent.
Indeed, they were family.
The first days went well.
Ryan assisted Dad with yard chores while Madison complained of morning sickness and sore feet. I assumed we could get along till their home was completed.
Was incorrect.
Like them, it began little. Madison complained of fatigue or standing difficulty. She’d sigh loudly over unwashed dishes or an unmade bed.
She then demanded royal treatment.
“I need something sweet but savory,” she said one morning, waddling into the kitchen as I ate toast. Chocolate pancakes with bacon. Hot syrup at the side. Not poured.”
She switched on the counter’s little TV while sitting at the table.
You’re not busy? Checking her nails, she said. “You can?”
“Sorry?”
“You live here for free, right?” She said as if it were clear. Let’s aid each other.”
Just the start.
Madison demanded more every day.
One day was chicken pot pie “with the peas picked out because they make me gag.” Another, she spotted a Thai peanut noodle meal on TikTok and demanded it despite the uncommon ingredients and hours of work.
I cooked. She criticized.
“Too salty,” she pushed the platter away. “The baby hates salt.”
Could you redo this? Less garlic. Actually, no garlic. I have heartburn.”
Chores followed.
“Can you vacuum our room?” she said one day, pointing to the guest bedroom. I can scarcely walk due to swollen ankles. And clean the mirrors? I detest water spots while getting ready.”
I kept silent. I did what she requested to avoid a scene.
No one helped, but I believed my parents would. They were too thrilled about their potential youngster, swooning over Madison’s tummy and contemplating nursery colors and names. They didn’t notice what occurred at work or errands.
And Ryan? He remained silent.
He checked his phone, nodded at Madison, and said “thanks” as I carried their dinner trays to their room.
The last straw was 2:30 a.m. on Thursday.
Madison pounded on my door like the house was on fire. I staggered out of bed, heart racing, fearing something was wrong.
“What’s wrong?” Opening the door, I gasped. “Is it baby?”
She stood calmly in her pink silk robe.
“I need sour cream and onion chips,” she remarked. “The baby wants them, so I must give them. The 5th-street gas station is 24/7. Can you go? Do not wake Ryan—he is grumpy without sleep.”
I fixated on her.
“Hello? Are you going? She waved her hand at me. “Time ticks.”
Closed the door in her face.
I caught Ryan in the kitchen the following morning as Madison slept off her nocturnal desire.
“I need to talk,” I whispered. Madison’s expectations are excessive.”
Already irritated, he glanced up from his breakfast.
“She treats me like a servant,” I remarked. “Cooking elaborate meals, cleaning your room, doing your laundry, and now waking me up at 2 a.m. for snacks. Ryan, I cannot.”
Sighing, he placed down his spoon. “Do as she says, Liz. Not hard.”
Excuse me?
“She’s pregnant,” he said. “She’s carrying their only blood grandchild. “You couldn’t do that.”
“What did you say?”
Shrugging, he ignored my disbelief. Liz, it’s true. Don’t fuss.”
I left the kitchen, unable to remain. My brother, who was supposed to adore me, declared me useless for not having children.
On our childhood swing set, Dad constructed, I wept for an hour. My parents shouldn’t watch me cry.
One night, looking at the ceiling in my childhood bed, I decided.
No more tears. I no longer ask for respect at home. No more pregnancy-based control.
The following morning, I contacted my friend Elise, who helped women through divorce and other transitions at a community center. She understood my background and proposed a position.
“There’s this lovely woman, Mrs. Chen,” Elise added. She needs cooking and basic cleaning assistance after her husband died last year. She pays nicely for part-time, live-in work. She simply wants kindness.”
Elise mentioned Mrs. Chen earlier, but I wasn’t ready. Was too broken.
Now I was ready.
After Madison and Ryan left with their trays, I ate supper with my parents.
“I’ve found a job,” I replied gently. “It includes housing. I leave next week.”
Quite shocked.
“Sweetheart, we don’t want you to go,” Mom said. “You’re still recovering from Tom. Do not rush.”
“I’ll be okay, Mom,” I replied. I can’t remain here being insulted. Not good for anyone.”
Madison smiled as she descended down the steps, listening.
Guess I get the larger bathroom!” chirping, she planned to redecorate the home.
I remained silent. Nothing to say.
Over the following several days, I packed discreetly.
No door-slamming or speeches. I made one farewell meal for my folks the way they wanted it and departed.
Three weeks later, Mom informed me Madison and Ryan had to go. Madison had a fury over a chilly omelet, calling Mom a “useless old woman” who couldn’t cook. Dad ordered them to leave tomorrow.
I didn’t see anything, but Mom phoned weeping.
“We’re sorry, honey,” she said. “We should have seen it sooner. You should have been protected.”
They were forgiven. Love may blind us to loved ones.
Sitting in Mrs. Chen’s warm kitchen with tea and a meaningful work, I could breathe again after months.
