**Diary Entry**
This past year has been the hardest of my life. After losing my job, my husband and I couldnt afford our rent anymore. He tried to cover everything, but soon it was clearwe needed help. We had to move in with my mother-in-law. It felt humiliating, but there was no other choice.
From the start, living under her roof was unbearable. Nothing I did pleased hernot my cooking, cleaning, or even how I spoke. Every time I dared to argue, shed snap the same words:
*”If you dont like it, pack your bags and leave.”*
I bit my tongue, but inside, the anger grew. And then, finally, I snapped.
It was her birthday. She insisted I cook dinnerwanted to show off to her friends how well her daughter-in-law could host. I swallowed my pride, bought good ingredients, and spent all day in the kitchen making spaghetti bolognese.
At first, everything seemed fine. Her friends smiled, laughed, even complimented the food. For a moment, I wondered if Id misjudged them. But when I stepped into the kitchen, I overheard them whispering.
I walked back into the dining room, picked up a plate of spaghetti, and dumped it straight onto her head. She burst into tears while her friends erupted into laughter.
I glared at them, my voice shaking with rage.
*”Thats what you deserve, you miserable cow! And as for you lotif youre not here to clean pasta off her head, get out of my house!”*
They fell silent, eyes downcast, and scurried out like startled mice.
But heres what I overheardwhat made me do it. My mother-in-law said in a low, raspy voice:
*”It wont be much longer. Ive made her life hell, and soon my plan will work.”*
One of her friends added:
*”My daughter still loves your son. Shes waiting for him to leave her. Dont worryhell forget this wife soon enough.”*
Another smirked.
*”But what if she gets pregnant? Hed never leave her then. Whats your plan for that?”*
Then came the worst of itmy mother-in-laws reply:
*”Thats taken care of. I slip pills into her food every dayso she cant get pregnant. My son deserves better than a useless woman like her.”*
Those words cut deeper than any slap. So I marched in and gave her a spaghetti crown.
The next day, my husband and I packed our things and left. We havent spoken to her since.
