**Diary Entry 10th May**
Ive endured my mother-in-laws jibes for twenty years, but her last words left me shaken.
“You shouldnt have yelled at her like that, Emily,” James said, setting his mug down and giving me a guilty look.
“Old? Was she old when she spent years making my life miserable?” I spun away from the window. “Twenty years, James! Twenty years Ive put up with her!”
“But shes unwell now…”
“Unwell!” I scoffed. “Only when it suits her. When shes insulting Margaret next door or winding me up, shes fit as a fiddle.”
James sipped his tea in silence. He was tired of the endless rows between his mother and me. Every day, the same routinea sharp remark from her, my temper flaring, doors slamming, harsh words hanging in the air.
“What did she say this time?” he asked, though he knew better.
I closed my eyes, steadying myself.
“That Im a poor housewife. That my soup tastes like dishwater, the house is a mess, and the kids are spoiled. Then she added that I ought to take lessons from Sarah, your brothers wifenow *theres* a woman who knows how to cook and clean.”
“Mums just… used to having things her way.”
“Her way!” My voice cracked. “And what about *my* way? Am I not used to cooking after work, scrubbing floors, washing clothes? Used to hearing daily how useless I am?”
James stood to embrace me, but I stepped back.
“Know what she saved for last today?” I wiped my sleeve across my eyes. “That when youre gone, Ill still be alone. Because no one would want someone like me.”
James froze, arms still outstretched.
“She didnt mean”
“Word for word. Then she slammed the door so hard the plaster shook.”
Footsteps padded down the hall. Ten-year-old Lily peeked in.
“Mum, is Gran gone? She didnt say goodbye.” She hugged my waist.
“Gone, love. Back to her house.” I smoothed her hair.
“Why do you always fight? It scares me.”
I knelt, meeting her eyes. “Grown-ups argue sometimes, sweetheart. But we still love each other.”
“Gran doesnt love you,” Lily said suddenly. “Shes always cross. It makes me sad.”
I held her tight, tears spilling again.
“Off to your homework, pet. Dad and I need to talk.”
When she left, James sat beside me.
“Em, Ill speak to Mum. Make her see”
“What?” I sighed. “Twenty years of talking. Wheres it got us?”
“Then what do we do?”
I studied my handsscuffed from washing, scrubbing, ironing. Hands that worked eight-hour shifts, then came home to more labour. Yet his mother called me a slattern.
“Remember how we met?” I asked suddenly.
James blinked. “Of course. At the village dance. You wore that blue dress.”
“*Cornflower* blue.” I managed a smile. “I thought you the handsomest man alive. Your mother hated me from the start.”
“She just worried Id marry”
“Stop making excuses!” I snapped. “She despised me for my working-class roots. My dad was a mechanic, not some high-flyer like yours.”
“That was decades ago”
“Was it? Recall our wedding? She scowled through it. When we moved in, her first words were, *My house, my rules.*”
I stood, filling the kettle.
“Twenty years, James. Twenty years cooking her way, cleaning her way, raising kids by her book. And what do I get?”
“Mum *does* appreciate”
“Appreciate?” I laughed bitterly. “She *tolerates* me. Theres a difference.”
The kettle whistled. I poured tea, sat back down.
“Know what I dream of?” I whispered. “Waking without dreading her verdict on breakfast. Coming home without fearing shes found dust. Buying the kids sweets without hearing Im rotting their teeth.”
“Em…”
“Let me finish. I dream of *our* home. Where no one picks apart my every step. Where our kids dont hear constant shouting.”
James took my hand.
“But wholl care for Mum?”
“Wholl care for *me*?” My voice broke. “When I had pneumonia, she never brought me teajust complained her soup was bland. When I broke my wrist, it was *my* fault chores lagged. *Always* my fault.”
A knock. James returned with our neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins.
“Hello, dear,” she said, refusing tea. “Heard Margaret was upset earlier.”
“Upset?” I muttered.
“Dont mind her, love. Shes elderly, poorly. Old folks turn prickly.”
“Know what she told me today?” I repeated the venom.
Mrs. Wilkins tutted. “Oh, Emily, she didnt mean it! Margaret brags about you constantlywhat a marvellous mum you are, how spotless you keep”
“*Bragged?*”
“Like a proud hen! Shes just too proud to say it to your face.”
“Then why the constant criticism?”
Mrs. Wilkins sighed. “Margarets ruled this family since her husband died. Then you cameyoung, lovely, James doting on you. She felt replaced.”
“I never stole her son”
“No, but you won his heart. That stings a mother like her.”
Her words held truth, yet no comfort.
“So I suffer forever?”
“Try kindness, dear. Tell her you value her advice.”
“I *have*. It never works.”
Mrs. Wilkins rose. “Well, its your choice. But breaking a familys easier than mending one.”
After she left, we sat in silence. Dusk fell; dogs barked distantly.
“James… what if we rented a place?” I ventured.
“We cant afford”
“Ill take extra shifts. The café needs weekend help.”
“And Mum?”
“She stays. This is her house. Well find something small*ours*.”
He hesitated. “Maybe… just to try.”
“*Try?*” I turned to him. “I *cant* anymore. Im forty, yet I feel like a scolded child.”
“Alright,” he murmured. “Well look.”
I hugged him, resting my head on his shoulderthe first time in years I dared hope for a life of my own.
“What if she objects?”
“Shell object to anything. But its *our* choice.”
—
Next evening, Margaret was at the stove, stirring soup, avoiding my gaze.
“Evening,” I said.
“Hmph. Starving the children, so Ive stepped in.”
I bit back a retort. Wed made our decision.
“Thank you. Ill change and help.”
She frownedI usually rose to the bait.
“Dont trouble yourself.”
“As you like.” I left.
Dinner was tense. The childrenLily and Oliverfelt it but didnt understand.
“Mum, whyre you sad?” Lily asked.
“Just tired, sweetheart.”
“Grans nice today,” Oliver piped up. “Gave me a biscuit.”
“Thats lovely,” I said.
Afterwards, Margaret lingered, rearranging spotless cutlery.
“Margaret,” I said. “We need to talk.”
Her spine stiffened. “About?”
“James and I are renting a place nearby.”
She paled. “Because of yesterday?”
“Not just that. We need space.”
“And the children?”
“Theyre *ours*.”
She sank onto a chair. “So Ill be alone.”
Her voice crackedI pitied her, but pity couldnt chain me.
“You wont be. Well visit. But we must live separately.”
“This is my fault,” she whispered.
“No ones fault,” James said gently. “Were trying something new.”
“What if it fails?”
“Well return,” I lied.
She stared out the window. “Youll still end up alone,” she repeated, but the malice was goneonly weariness remained.
“Perhaps,” I said. “But itll be *my* choice.”
—
**Lesson learned**: No one deserves a life spent appeasing others. Sometimes, kindness means walking awayfor your sake, and theirs.
