**Diary Entry 12th June**
*”If cookings such a burden, maybe you should leave. Well manage without you,”* my mother-in-law said, backed by my husbands silence.
I never imagined my life could unravel so quickly. The betrayal didnt come from a strangerit came from those I trusted most. One conversation with Margaret Whitmore, my mother-in-law, and I knew I could rely only on myself. It began with a seemingly harmless remark: *”Mum needs rest. Shes exhausted. Couldnt you go away for a while to give her space?”* Thats what Daniel, my husband, said. The man Id dreamed of growing old with. The one Id cooked for, cared for, stood by through everything. And this was my reward?
Danielmy husbandwas away on another business trip. He worked as a technician in factories, travelling across England often. I never complained; he earned well, and we lived comfortably in my two-bedroom flat, inherited from my aunt. It suited him, and it gave me peace. But every time he left, his mother would turn up unannounced. Margaret Whitmore. No knock, no warning. Shed appear like a storm at the doorstep, dictating everythingwhat to cook, how to clean, where to store the linens, which brands to buy.
I bit my tongue. Tried to be polite. Told myself she was elderly, lonelythat kindness might soften her. Instead, I got only scorn. *”You cant even make a proper stew,”* *”This place is filthy,”* *”How will you raise children if you cant peel potatoes right?”* Then it got worse. She demanded I leave. My own home. So she*tired and wretched*could *”finally sleep.”* Sleep! In my flat! Where would I go? A friends? A hotel?
So I called Daniel, trembling with hope. Told him everything. Waited for his support. And he wasnt even surprised. *”Mum really needs a break. Just humour her, love. Go away for a bitwell talk later.”* Not a word about where Id stay. No offer to cover costs. No reminder that I was his wife, the one who kept his home, whod planned to bear his children.
That was the end. I realised thenthere was no love left. Just convenience. A woman to cook, clean, and serve. No tenderness. No respect. I told him, *”If you want to live with your mother, stay. But I want a divorce.”* He didnt argue. Silence. Days later, he returned, packed his things quietly, and left to join her in her little village. And I stayed. In my flat. Alone. Empty.
I didnt cry. I was past tears. Theyd dried up the day he chose her over me. Now, I live. Quietly. No arguments. No criticism. No pain. Sometimes, a thought of him tightens my chest. But then I hear his voice telling me to leaveand it passes. Because I didnt walk away. He did. The love left. I stayed. Strong. Whole. True.
Now, every morning, I wake knowing the day is mine. And no Margaret Whitmore will ever tell me how to live it.
*Lesson learned: Never shrink yourself to fit into someone elses idea of worth. A home isnt wallsits respect. And thats non-negotiable.*
