From the very beginning, I knew there would be no warmth for me in my husband’s family. The moment Oliver and I got married, his sister Emily made it clear I didn’t belong. I tried to build bridges, to smooth things over, to be useful. But it was pointless—like knocking on a brick wall.
I work at a local GP surgery—reception and part-time in the appointments department, arranging referrals and tests. More than once, I’ve helped Oliver’s family: booking last-minute slots, pulling strings with doctors, making sure they didn’t have to pay a penny. Some thanked me, some stayed silent, but I never minded. I told myself that’s what family does.
Emily took full advantage. She knew I had a car and was always asking for lifts—never for anything urgent, just shopping trips, salon appointments, or visiting friends. Even on weekends, she’d ring at nine on a Saturday morning: “Could you drop me on the other side of town? It’s really important.” Not once did she consider whether I might want to sleep in or if I had plans. Her own husband had a car, but for some reason, I became her personal chauffeur.
Emily dragged Oliver into her dramas too. One call from her, and he’d drop everything and rush over. I asked him to set boundaries, but he’d just say, “You wouldn’t understand—you don’t have siblings.” As if that excused everything.
Family gatherings were another trial. Everyone exchanged small gifts—I bought for all of them. But no one ever gave me so much as a card. Like I was invisible, like my time, petrol, and energy meant nothing.
Two years ago, Emily needed surgery. I called in every favour I had in healthcare—arranged surgeons, made sure she didn’t pay a thing. I didn’t do it for gratitude. But when someone can’t even say “thank you,” it stings. Especially when you know her own mother couldn’t have managed half of what I did.
Then it was me in hospital—emergency surgery. And who from Oliver’s family checked on me? No one. Not a soul. Emily did call—but not to ask how I was. She needed a copy of some document. Knew I was in recovery, yet still rang. It never occurred to her to ask someone else or wait. That’s their idea of “family.”
Time passed. I recovered. Once, Oliver and I went to his uncle’s birthday. Everyone else said hello, chatted. Emily? Walked out the moment she saw me. Like I had the plague. A full year of silence since that phone call—all because of a piece of paper.
I’m done being convenient. Done being the cheap resource for a family who only wants favours. I have no blood relatives left, but I won’t let them wipe their feet on me anymore. Enough. I’m tired. I owe them nothing.
