My Husband and MIL Told Me to Take an Unpaid Leave to Help with Her House Renovations
There’s a kind of quiet rage that builds when people continually take you for granted. It’s the kind that simmers for years, buried under forced smiles and clenched teeth, until one day, you’ve had enough. For me, that moment arrived over dinner, when my mother-in-law Sharon casually announced her “brilliant” idea—an entire house renovation. My husband Ryan, as always, was in full cheerleader mode. They exchanged looks like they were two visionaries on the verge of a breakthrough, while I sat quietly, knowing exactly who was going to be volunteered to make it all happen.
Sharon didn’t just want a few upgrades. She wanted a full transformation—kitchen gutted, floors torn up, three bathrooms ripped apart all at once. “You should take a few months off work to manage it,” she said sweetly. “Your marketing job can’t be that important. Helping with this is real work.” Ryan, predictably, nodded. “You’ve got great organizational skills. It makes sense.”
That’s when it hit me—they were serious. They actually expected me to take unpaid leave from my job to coordinate her vanity project. Never mind the fact that I was the primary breadwinner, a detail Ryan insisted we keep from Sharon to spare his ego. According to her, my career was just a cute little side hustle.
I stayed calm, at first. “I’m not taking unpaid leave for your renovation,” I told them. “My work matters.” Sharon waved me off. “Family should come first.” Ryan scoffed. “No one would notice if you took a break from your emails.”
My emails? I looked at him, stunned. “What exactly are you doing that’s so critical, Ryan? Because I bring home more than you do, and I’m not about to sacrifice that for tile samples.”
He flushed. Sharon huffed. And I stood up, done pretending. “Let me be clear: I’m not your free project manager. Not now, not ever.”
Two days later, while Ryan was showering, I saw a message pop up on his phone. Sharon had texted him, not realizing I’d see it. “She’s so selfish. I raised my son for someone better than this.” My hands shook as I read it. I’d tolerated their digs for years. But that? That was the last straw.
Instead of confronting them in anger, I decided to show them what “selfish” actually looked like. I emailed my manager and took a week off—not for the renovation, but for a luxury spa retreat. Five stars. No phones. No demands. Just peace.
Before I left, I sent a message in a group chat with Ryan and Sharon: “Since you both have such a vision for the project, I’ll let you take it from here. I’ll be out of town. Good luck, dream team.”
Then I turned off my phone and left. And it was glorious.
When I returned, chaos had taken over. The contractor quit after being micromanaged to death. The kitchen delivery was delayed because no one had been there to sign for it. The bathroom was half-demolished with no plan to finish it. Sharon and Ryan were snapping at each other, surrounded by piles of paint swatches and unopened boxes. The dream team had crashed and burned.
I stepped inside, took in the disaster, and smiled. “So, how’s it going?”
Ryan looked defeated. “We might need to hire someone.”
“Might?” I raised an eyebrow. “Hiring someone to do the job you expected me to do for free? What a concept.”
Eventually, they brought in a professional project manager—who, ironically, charged more per day than I made in a week. But at least now they understood the value of actual work.
Ryan apologized. Sharon, begrudgingly, admitted she’d underestimated me. And me? I went back to work, booked another spa weekend, and this time it wasn’t to make a point. It was to celebrate.
Because choosing myself wasn’t selfish. It was necessary. And it felt damn good.