When Kindness Becomes a Curse: My Battle With Boundaries and My Mother-in-Law

“You’re not going to say no to your own mother-in-law, are you, Jake?” Linda’s voice echoed through the kitchen, sharp as the knife she was using to slice apples for her infamous pie. I stood there, hands clenched around the grocery bags I’d just lugged in for her—again—while Maggie, my wife, busied herself with our son in the living room, pretending not to hear.

I wanted to say no. God, I wanted to say no. But I just smiled, that same tight-lipped smile I’d been wearing for years. “Of course not, Linda. What do you need?”

She didn’t even look up. “The gutters need cleaning. And while you’re up there, check the shingles. The last storm was a doozy.”

I swallowed hard. It was Saturday—my only day off after a brutal week at the auto shop. I’d promised Ethan we’d go fishing. But Linda’s needs always seemed to come first.

It wasn’t always like this. When Maggie and I first got married, Linda was warm, almost maternal. She’d bake cookies for us, call to check in, even help with Ethan when he was born. But somewhere along the way, her kindness turned into expectation—and my willingness to help became her right.

The first time I noticed it was Christmas three years ago. She asked me to assemble her new treadmill on Christmas morning. I missed Ethan opening his presents because I was in her basement with a wrench and a manual written in what might as well have been Greek. Maggie said, “She just needs help, Jake. She’s alone.”

But Linda wasn’t helpless—she was demanding. And every time I tried to set a boundary, Maggie would say, “She’s my mom. Please.”

The requests grew: fixing her car (even though she could afford a mechanic), painting her living room (twice in two years), driving her to appointments that conflicted with my work schedule. Each time I said yes, hoping it would be the last time. Each time, it got a little harder to look at myself in the mirror.

Last month was the breaking point. Linda called at 10 p.m.—Ethan had a fever of 102 and Maggie was at his bedside. My phone buzzed and buzzed until I answered.

“Jake! My internet is down and I can’t watch my shows. You have to come fix it.”

“Linda, it’s late. Ethan’s sick—”

“I’m sure Maggie can handle it. You’re good with computers.”

I stared at Ethan’s flushed face, then at Maggie’s pleading eyes. “Just go,” she whispered. “She’ll keep calling.”

So I went. Drove across town in the rain, fixed her Wi-Fi in five minutes while she complained about her neighbor’s dog barking too much. When I got home, Ethan was asleep and Maggie was crying quietly in the dark.

I sat on the edge of our bed and whispered, “I can’t keep doing this.”

Maggie wiped her eyes. “She’s all I have left since Dad died. She gets lonely.”

“And what about us? What about Ethan? He needed me tonight.”

She didn’t answer.

The next morning, I tried to talk to Linda about boundaries.

“Linda,” I started gently over coffee, “I want to help you, but sometimes it’s too much—”

She cut me off with a laugh. “Oh Jake, you’re such a good boy! That’s why Maggie married you.”

I felt invisible.

The resentment grew like mold in the corners of our marriage. Ethan started asking why Daddy always had to leave when Grandma called. Maggie and I fought more—quietly at first, then with raised voices behind closed doors.

One night, after another argument about Linda’s latest request (organizing her garage), Maggie snapped: “If you loved me, you’d help my mother!”

I stared at her, stunned. “If you loved me, you’d tell her no once in a while.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything Linda had ever asked of me.

I started seeing a therapist—alone at first, then with Maggie. We talked about boundaries, about guilt and obligation and the difference between kindness and self-sacrifice.

“I’m afraid if I say no,” Maggie admitted one session, “she’ll stop loving me.”

“And if you never say no,” I said quietly, “you’ll lose me.”

That hit her hard.

We made a plan: Maggie would start saying no to small things first—declining Linda’s invitations for dinner every Sunday, letting calls go to voicemail after 8 p.m., asking Linda to hire help for bigger jobs.

It wasn’t easy. Linda pouted, guilt-tripped, even threatened to cut us out of her will (which made us laugh and cry at the same time). But slowly, things changed.

Ethan got his fishing trip. We had quiet weekends again—sometimes even just the three of us.

But sometimes I still wonder: Was it worth all the pain? Did my kindness really help anyone—or did it just enable Linda’s loneliness and drive a wedge between me and my own family?

How do you know when helping becomes hurting? And is it ever okay to put yourself first—even when family is involved?