When my pregnant sister-in-law decided I was her personal servant, I stayed quiet and went along with it. But when my own brother called me worthless because I couldn’t have children, everything changed. That’s when I stopped being a victim and started planning my escape.
My name is Liz, and I’m 35. Six months ago, I was married to Tom. He was a good man who made me laugh and brought me coffee in bed on Sundays.
We had a lovely house with a white picket fence and dreams of filling the extra bedrooms with the laughter of children.
But dreams don’t always come true.
For four years, we tried to have a baby. Four years of hope, hormones, and heartbreak. Each month brought anticipation, followed by crushing disappointment.
Fertility treatments cost more than our car. We changed our diets, took vitamins, and saw specialists in three states. I tracked my temperature, counted days, and prayed.
But nothing worked.
Every time someone asked, “When are you two having kids?” I wanted to vanish.
Tom was patient at first. He held me when I cried and said we’d figure it out together. He said all the right things.
But patience runs out.
“I can’t wait anymore,” he said one Tuesday morning, eyes fixed on his newspaper.
Just like that.
Like I was a failed project he was done with.
“What do you mean?” I asked, though I’d seen it coming in his distant looks and the way he pulled away from my touch.
“I want children, Liz. Real children. Not just the hope of them,” he said flatly. “I can’t spend my life waiting for something that’s not going to happen.”
“We could adopt,” I whispered.
He looked at me then, and the coldness in his eyes broke something inside me I’m not sure will ever heal.
“I want my own kids,” he said. “My blood.”
Six weeks later, he was gone. Moved in with his secretary, who was already three months pregnant.
His legacy. The thing I couldn’t give him.
Heartbroken, I returned to the only people who ever truly loved me: my parents.
They welcomed me with open arms, as I knew they would.
Mom cooked my favorite meals and didn’t pry when I cried over dinner. Dad fixed the lock on my childhood bedroom door and didn’t comment when I stayed inside for days.
For a while, I felt safe.
But that peace lasted only two months.
Then my brother Ryan and his pregnant wife, Madison, moved in.
They were renovating their new home across town, they said.
“Just for a few weeks,” Madison said with a sweet smile, the kind she used when she wanted something. “Until the house is safe for the baby.”
My parents, always generous, gave them the guest room and told them not to worry about rent.
They were family, after all.
The first few days were fine.
Ryan helped Dad with yard work, and Madison mostly kept to herself, complaining about morning sickness and swollen feet. I thought we could all get along until their house was ready.
I was wrong.
It started small, as these things do. Madison would mention being tired or how hard it was to stand. She’d sigh loudly while eyeing dirty dishes or an unmade bed.
Then she made it clear she expected to be treated like royalty.
“I need something sweet but savory,” she announced one morning, waddling into the kitchen while I ate my toast. “Like chocolate pancakes with bacon. Hot syrup on the side. Not poured.”
She sat at the table and turned on the small TV on the counter.
“You’re not busy, right?” she said, inspecting her nails. “You can make it?”
“Sorry?”
“You’re living here for free too, right?” she said, as if it were obvious. “Let’s help each other out.”
That was just the beginning.
Every day, Madison added to her list of demands.
One day, it was chicken pot pie “with the peas picked out because they make me gag.” Another, she saw a Thai peanut noodle dish on TikTok and insisted on having it, despite the rare ingredients and hours of prep.
I cooked. She critiqued.
“Too salty,” she’d say, pushing the plate away. “The baby doesn’t like salt.”
“Can you remake this? Less garlic. Actually, no garlic. It gives me heartburn.”
Then came the chores.
“Can you vacuum our room?” she asked one afternoon, pointing to the guest bedroom. “My ankles are so swollen I can barely walk. Oh, and wipe the mirrors? I hate water spots when I’m getting ready.”
I stayed quiet. I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I did what she asked.
I thought my parents would step in, but they didn’t. They were too excited about their future grandchild, cooing over Madison’s belly and discussing baby names and nursery colors. They didn’t see what happened when they were at work or running errands.
And Ryan? He said nothing.
He scrolled his phone, nodded at Madison’s words, and mumbled “thanks” when I brought their dinner trays to their room.
The final straw came at 2:30 a.m. on a Thursday.
Madison banged on my door like the house was on fire. I stumbled out of bed, heart pounding, thinking something was wrong.
“What’s wrong?” I gasped, opening the door. “Is it the baby?”
She stood there in her pink silk robe, calm and unbothered.
“I need sour cream and onion chips,” she said. “The baby wants them, and I have to give him what he wants. The gas station on 5th is open 24 hours. Can you go? I don’t want to wake Ryan; he gets cranky without sleep.”
I stared at her.
“Hello? Are you going?” she said, waving her hand in my face. “Time’s ticking.”
I shut the door in her face.
The next morning, I cornered Ryan in the kitchen while Madison slept off her midnight craving.
“I need to talk,” I said quietly. “Madison’s demands are out of control.”
He looked up from his cereal, already annoyed.
“She treats me like a servant,” I said. “Cooking elaborate meals, cleaning your room, doing your laundry, and now waking me at 2 a.m. for snacks. I can’t do this, Ryan.”
He sighed and set down his spoon. “Just do what she asks, Liz. It’s not that hard.”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s pregnant,” he said. “She’s carrying Mom and Dad’s only blood grandchild. You… well, you couldn’t do that.”
“What did you just say?”
He shrugged, unfazed by my shock. “It’s the truth, Liz. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
I walked out of the kitchen, unable to stay. My own brother, who was supposed to love me, had just called me worthless because I couldn’t have children.
I cried for an hour on the old swing set Dad built when we were kids. I didn’t want my parents to see me break.
But that night, staring at the ceiling in my childhood bed, I made a decision.
No more crying. No more begging for respect in my own home. No more letting someone use their pregnancy to control me.
The next morning, I called my friend Elise, who worked at a community center helping women through divorce and life changes. She knew my story and had mentioned a job before.
“There’s this lovely woman, Mrs. Chen,” Elise said. “Her husband passed last year, and she needs help with cooking and light housekeeping. It’s part-time, live-in, and she pays well. She just wants someone kind.”
Elise had mentioned Mrs. Chen before, but I wasn’t ready then. I was too broken.
Now, I was ready.
That evening, I sat with my parents at the dinner table after Madison and Ryan retreated with their trays.
“I’ve found a job,” I said calmly. “It comes with a place to live. I’m moving out next week.”
They were surprised.
“Sweetheart, we don’t want you to go,” Mom said. “You’re still healing from Tom. You don’t need to rush.”
“I’ll be okay, Mom,” I said. “I can’t stay here and be disrespected. It’s not good for any of us.”
Madison, eavesdropping from the stairs, came down smiling.
“Guess I get the bigger bathroom now!” she chirped, already planning to rearrange the house.
I didn’t respond. There was nothing to say.
I packed quietly over the next few days.
I didn’t slam doors or make speeches. I cooked one last dinner for my parents, the way they liked it, and left.
Three weeks later, Mom told me Madison and Ryan had to leave, too. Madison threw a tantrum over a slightly cold omelet, calling Mom a “useless old woman” who couldn’t cook. Dad told them to go the next day.
I wasn’t there to see it, but Mom called, crying.
“We’re so sorry, honey,” she said. “We should’ve seen it sooner. We should’ve protected you.”
I forgave them. Love can blind us to those we care about.
For the first time in months, sitting in Mrs. Chen’s cozy kitchen with a cup of tea and a job that made me feel useful, I could breathe again.