**Diary Entry 8th March**
*”Do you fancy yourself the lady of the house now?”* My mother-in-law smirked, eyeing my new curtains with disapproval.
*”Wheres my grandson?”* Those were the first words out of Helens mouth the moment I opened the door. Eleanor Whitmore stood on the threshold, clutching an oversized handbag, her expression sour.
*”Good afternoon, Eleanor,”* I greeted her politely. *”Olivers nappingI just put him down an hour ago.”*
*”Napping? At two in the afternoon?”* She huffed, brushing past me into the flat. *”At his age, my David was up and about by dawn.”*
I swallowed the jab and helped her out of her coat. Every visit from Eleanor was an ordeal. She had a knack for finding fault in everythingfrom how I raised my son to the way I stacked the dishwasher.
*”Would you like tea?”* I offered, moving toward the kitchen.
*”Naturally. And put out those biscuitsthe oat ones I brought last time.”*
Eleanor lingered in the sitting room, pausing by the window. Just yesterday, Id finally hung the new curtainssoft ivory with a gold sheen, the ones Id spent a month picking out. Id saved up from my wages, wanting to make the place feel like home.
*”Do you fancy yourself the lady of the house now?”* she scoffed, eyeing them. *”Such extravagance.”*
My chest tightened. Again. Again, Id done something wrong in Eleanors eyes.
*”The old ones were threadbare,”* I murmured. *”David said they needed replacing.”*
*”David said?”* She turned sharply. *”And how much did these cost? Half his monthly wages, Ill bet.”*
*”I used my own money,”* I replied, forcing calm.
*”Your own?”* She sank into the armchair, studying me. *”Shouldnt a family share finances? Or are you making all the decisions now?”*
I set the tea in front of her and sat opposite. The conversation was taking its usual unpleasant turn.
*”David and I discuss things,”* I said.
*”Discuss?”* She sipped her tea and winced. *”Weak. Ive told you how to brew it properly. And these curtainsthey dont suit the room at all.”*
I looked at them. To me, they were perfectbrightening the space, making it warm.
*”I like them,”* I ventured.
*”You like them,”* she echoed. *”And what about your husbands opinion? Or his grandmothers?”*
*”David approved.”*
*”Davids too soft,”* she sighed. *”Hates confrontation. You take advantage.”*
A cry came from the nursery. Oliver was awake. I stood, but Eleanor was already on her feet.
*”Ill go. At least someone will tend to him properly.”*
She vanished into the nursery, leaving me at the kitchen table, staring at those damned curtains. Were they truly awful? Should I have consulted her first?
From the nursery came Eleanors cooinggentle, patient, loving. With Oliver, she was a different woman. With me, she was a critic, dissecting every flaw.
*”Lily!”* she called sharply. *”Come here. Look at your child!”*
My heart lurched. I rushed in. Eleanor stood by the cot, Oliver in her arms.
*”Whats wrong?”* I asked, alarmed.
*”Whats wrong? Hes got nappy rash!”* she snapped. *”Are you blind? Do you even care for him?”*
I stepped closer. A faint redness, nothing severe.
*”Its from the new nappiesa mild reaction. Ive been using cream.”*
*”Cream?”* She shook her head. *”In my day, we raised children without such nonsense. And they turned out just fine.”*
*”But modern remedies help”*
*”Modern rubbish,”* she cut in. *”The boys suffering, and youre wasting money on curtains.”*
Tears pricked my eyes. Every visit ended like thisme feeling like a failure.
*”I take care of him,”* I whispered.
*”Do you? Then whys he so thin? David was twice his size at this age.”*
*”The GP says his weights normal.”*
*”GPs,”* she muttered. *”Wheres a mothers instinct? I can see hes underfed.”*
I took Oliver, holding him close. He was healthy, thriving. But to Eleanor, I was always doing it wrong.
Back in the sitting room, she resumed her seat, surveying the space.
*”When did you even find time to hang these? Neglecting your duties, I suppose.”*
*”David helped me last night.”*
*”He helped?”* She smirked. *”Bothering a man with household trifles. My David never stooped to such things.”*
I bit back the retortthat David had offered, that he enjoyed helping. Arguing was pointless.
*”How much did you pay?”* she pressed.
*”A hundred pounds.”*
She gasped. *”A hundred pounds? For curtains? Have you lost your mind? That couldve bought Oliver clothes for months!”*
*”He has clothes. We hadnt replaced these in years.”*
*”No need to. The old ones were finenot garish like these.”*
Garish? I studied the muted ivory fabric. What was garish about them?
Keys jingled at the door. David was home. Relief washed over meperhaps shed turn her attention to him.
*”Mum!”* he greeted warmly. *”How long have you been here?”*
*”Not long,”* she said, embracing him. *”I missed you.”*
*”Missed you too. Everything alright at home?”*
*”Oh, just popped by to see my grandson. Found him covered in rashes. And so thin.”*
David glanced between us, baffled. *”Mum, hes perfectly healthy. No rashes.”*
*”I saw them,”* she insisted. *”Youre too busy to notice.”*
*”Mum, hes fine. Lily takes excellent care of him.”*
Eleanor pursed her lips. *”If you say so. But do keep an eye on her spending. A hundred pounds on curtains! Can you imagine?”*
David finally noticed the curtains.
*”Oh, you put them up! Looks brilliant.”*
*”Looks brilliant,”* she repeated, as if humouring a child. *”A hundred pounds, David. On curtains.”*
*”So?”* He shrugged. *”Fair price. We saved up.”*
*”Saved?”*
*”Yes. Lily set aside a bit each month. Wanted it to be a surprise.”*
Eleanors gaze sharpenednot approval, but suspicion.
*”Saving behind her husbands back? Interesting.”*
*”Mum, it wasnt like that,”* David said, exasperated. *”We agreed the place needed freshening up. Lily took charge.”*
*”Ah, took charge,”* she nodded. *”I see. Decides for the whole family.”*
Davids patience frayed. *”Mum, whats the issue? Shes done a lovely job. The flats homelier.”*
*”Homelier for whom? Herself?”*
*”For all of us,”* he said firmly.
She fell silent, displeasure simmering. Oliver began to fusshungry.
*”Ill feed him,”* I said, heading to the bedroom.
*”Wait,”* Eleanor stopped me. *”Give me a bottle. Ill do it.”*
*”Hes breastfed.”*
*”What?”* She balked. *”Still? Hes eight months!”*
*”The GP recommends at least a year.”*
*”GPs,”* she muttered. *”Dont you think its time to wean him? A child needs independence.”*
*”Mum, enough,”* David cut in. *”Breastfeedings beneficial.”*
*”Beneficial,”* she waved dismissively. *”In my day, children thrived without such fuss.”*
I left to feed Oliver. Muffled voices drifted from the sitting roomEleanors complaints, no doubt.
When I returned, David was silent. Eleanor gathered her things.
*”Leaving so soon?”* I asked.
*”Yes, things to do,”* she said curtly.
She kissed Oliver and left. David saw her out.
*”Mum, dont fret over nothing,”* I heard him say. *”Lilys a wonderful wife and mother.”*
*”If you
