Every Saturday, like clockwork, I become our home’s personal chef. It’s not a quick chore—it’s an all-day effort. I knead, chop, roast, bake. I make savory pies, marinated chicken, dumplings, sauces, soups—everything labeled and frozen, ready to get us through the week. It’s the only way I stay sane after long days at work. Cooking on weekends means we eat well without burning out midweek. It’s the rhythm I’ve built to keep things balanced.
So imagine the jolt when I opened the freezer on Monday and found it almost empty. All the containers I had carefully arranged were gone. My plans for the week—ruined. The only things left were a few random portions scattered here and there.
I called out, already knowing who was responsible.
“William? Where’s the food I made?”
He was quiet for a second, then glanced up from the couch, a bit too casual.
“Mum stopped by,” he said. “She’s low on money, said she didn’t have much left. I gave her some of the meals.”
Some. But the freezer was stripped clean.
“How much did you give her?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
“Half, maybe a bit more,” he muttered. “It’s not a big deal. She’s getting old. I figured we could spare it.”
I stood there, stunned. Two days of work. Hours standing on my feet, planning, prepping, measuring, making sure our meals were nourishing, varied, and enough to last us. That food wasn’t just food—it was care. It was effort. It was me giving everything I had to make our lives a little easier. And he gave it away like it meant nothing.
“If she needs help,” I said, keeping my voice from shaking, “you could give her money. Or help her buy groceries. But don’t you dare think it’s fine to give away my work without asking. I’m not her maid. I’m not anyone’s maid.”
He scoffed. Said I was overreacting. Said I was being selfish. That I was “just a homemaker” and should be more generous to my mother-in-law. That’s when I picked up a tote bag and walked out the door.
She lives next door, so it wasn’t far. When she answered, I told her, as clearly and calmly as I could, “That food was made for this household. It’s not personal, but I didn’t make it for you. I work too, and I spend my entire weekend cooking so I don’t collapse during the week. If William wants to help you, he can. But not with my hands, and not without my consent.”
She blinked, surprised. Then just stepped aside. I walked into her kitchen and took the containers back.
That night, William was furious. Said I’d embarrassed him. Said I was cruel.
But I didn’t feel cruel. I felt human.
I’m not against helping. I’m not heartless. But help isn’t about sacrificing yourself in silence. Help isn’t something done for others through gritted teeth and tears on the inside. Help should never feel like erasure.
If he truly wants to support his mother, he can do it with his own money, his own time, his own hands. Not with mine. Not with my weekend. Not with my life, handed over without even a conversation.
I deserve rest too. I deserve to be asked. I deserve to say no. And from now on—I will.