**Diary Entry 9th May**
I stared at the elderly woman standing on my doorstep with a suitcase, hardly believing my eyes. Margaret Whitmore, my former mother-in-law, stood there as if visiting an old friend rather than the ex-wife of her son.
“Charlotte, darling,” she drawled, “Ive nowhere else to go. Christopher has moved that whats-her-name Olivia in with him. And I wont impose on young love, you understand? Theyre building their future, and whats an old woman to do? Youll let me stay just for a little while, wont you?”
Silently, I stepped aside. What could I say? Turn a sixty-year-old woman out onto the street? Yes, the divorce had been bitter. Yes, Christopher had turned out to be *that* sortthe kind who, after twelve years of marriage, suddenly “found himself” in the arms of a twenty-five-year-old colleague. But what did his mother have to do with it?
“Margaret,” I said softly, closing the door behind her, “I dont understand. You have your own flat. Why stay here?”
“Oh, Charlotte,” she sighed, settling onto the sofa and loosening her shoelaces, “you know how tiny my place is. This is so much more spacious. Christopher mentioned youre alone in this two-bedroom now. Surely you can spare a little room for an old woman?”
I clenched my fists. Of course Christopher had said that. How convenientmoving his new girlfriend in while palming his mother off onto his ex-wife. And no one cared how I felt.
“Its only temporary,” Margaret repeated, already unbuttoning her coat. “Just until I sort things out.”
For the first week, I tried to be understanding. I made breakfast for two, bought the “urgent” medicines she needed, quietly tidied up after her. Margaret was not the tidiest houseguestdirty dishes piled in the sink, clothes strewn about, loud telly blaring late into the night.
“Charlotte, dear,” she said one morning, “my pension is so small. Could you spare a little for groceries? And my blood pressure tablets. Im utterly broke.”
Without a word, I opened my purse and handed her fifty pounds. Then thirty more for a “new heart supplement.” Then twenty for “something sweet with tea.”
“Margaret,” I ventured cautiously a month later, my wallet nearly empty from her constant requests, “perhaps we should live within our means? Im not made of money, either.”
She spun around, her eyes flashing with that familiar firethe prelude to a full-blown row.
“What did you just say?” Her voice rose an octave. “Live within my means? How dare you! I welcomed you into this family as my own! Twelve years, I treated you like a daughter! And now you begrudge me a few pounds for my medicine?”
“Im not begrudging you, I just”
“What do you know about struggle, childless as you are?” she shrieked, waving her arms. “I raised my son alone after his father passed! Worked three jobs! And now youd deny me heart tablets? Ill tell the neighbours what youre really likeungrateful!”
I endured the scene in silence. And the next. And the one after that, triggered by an “unsuitable” dinner. Margaret was a master of theatricshours of shouting, rallying the neighbours sympathy, listing my sins as if reading from scripture.
After another performance, I rang Christopher.
“Chris, come and get your mother. Please.”
“Char, dont be like that. Im building a life here. Mums still upset about the divorce. And youve got the space, havent you?”
“Its costing me money, sanity, and peace.”
“Dont be dramatic. Shes elderlyshe needs support. If you can help, why not?”
The dial tone hummed. Hed hung up.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I knew I couldnt take it anymore. Margaret acted as if she owned the place, picking fights, demanding money, utterly convinced of her right to do so.
*”She thought Id support her out of guilt after the divorce. But she had no idea what I was really planning,”* I thought, gazing at the grey February sky outside.
The next morning, while Margaret was at the GPs, I called a locksmith. The locks were changed within an hour.
That evening, she returned from her usual roundsshopping and complaining to shopkeepersonly to find her key useless.
“Charlotte! Open this door!” she banged. “What nonsense is this?”
I stepped onto the landing, calm as ice. “No nonsense, Margaret. Pack your things. Ive called a taxi.”
“What? Have you lost your mind? Where are you sending me?”
“Home. To your son. Where you belong.”
“But I cant! Olivias there! Its awkward!”
“Was it awkward for *me*?” I asked, watching her face harden, ready to strike.
“How dare you!” she screeched. “Im an old woman! My hearts frail! You cant do this!”
“I can. Its my flat.”
“Ill tell the neighbours! Theyll see what you are!”
“Tell them. I dont care anymore.”
Her suitcase was packed quicklyshe hadnt brought much. In the taxi, she sat silently, clutching her chest with theatrical gasps.
Outside Christophers building, I helped with her bag. Up to the third floor. The door opened to reveal my ex-husband in joggers, baffled.
“Charlotte? Mum? Whats going on?”
“Youre getting your mother back,” I said, shoving the suitcase inside. “Margaret no longer lives with me.”
Olivia emergeda pretty blonde in a dressing gown. Her face fell at the sight of Margaret.
“But she cant stay here!” Christopher protested. “Weve just”
“started your new life,” I finished. “Lovely. Enjoy it. Without me.”
“Charlotte, you dont understand,” he said in that infuriatingly patient tone. “Mum needs help. Shes ill. Her pensions tiny.”
“She has a son. *He* can help.”
“But Ive a new family now!”
“And Ive a new life. One without your problems.”
Margaret, silent until now, erupted.
“Christopher! Look how she treats me! Throwing an old woman out! Heartless! I loved her like a daughter!”
“Mum, come on,” he mumbled, but I saw the panic in his eyes.
“Evict your mother if you likethats on your conscience,” I said, turning to leave. “But none of you will ever set foot in my home again. I wont open that door.”
“Charlotte, wait!” he called after me.
But I was already down the stairs, deaf to Margarets screams and Christophers pleading.
Back home, I opened my laptop and booked a fortnight in Spainall-inclusive, paid for with the money Id saved for new furniture. Exactly what I needed after a month of Margaret.
That evening, Christopher called.
“Charlotte, how could you be so cruel? Mums in tears.”
“Let her cry in *your* flat.”
“But Olivia and I are just settling in! You get that, dont you?”
“I do. And I also get that its *your* problem.”
“Char, be reasonable. Well figure something out, but not now. Give us time.”
“You had time. A whole month of me funding your mother. Times up.”
I hung up and switched off my phone.
For three days, it rang nonstopChristopher, Margaret, even unknown numbers (likely her cronies). I ignored them all.
On Thursday, I sipped coffee by the window, watching children play below. The silence was bliss after a month of chaos.
The doorbell rang. Olivia stood there, tear-streaked.
“Charlotte, can we talk?”
“About what?”
“Margaret. I know youve had a falling-out, but”
“We didnt fall out. I set boundaries.”
“Shes difficult,” Olivia whispered. “She blames me for breaking up the family. Every day, another scene. Chris is never home, and Im stuck with her. The things she says”
I almost smiled. A month ago, Id have pitied her. Now, I just stared.
“Thats your familys issue.”
“Maybe we could take turns? Or”
“No.”
“But she cant live on the street!”
“She has a flat. And a son. Sort it out yourselves.”
Olivia lingered, hoping for more, but I stayed silent.
“I thought youd understand,” she muttered, turning away.
“I do. I understand that everyone must handle their own mess.”
By Friday, the neighbours were buzzing. Mrs. Thompson from downstairs cornered me by the mailboxes.
“Charlotte, is it true you threw Margaret out
