**Diary Entry November 12th**
I couldnt believe my eyes when I opened the door to find Margaret standing there, suitcase in hand, as if she were paying a casual visit to an old friend. My ex-mother-in-law had that practised look of wounded innocence, the one shed perfected over years of guilt-tripping.
Emily, darling, she sighed, dragging out each syllable, Ive nowhere else to go. Christophers moved that whats-her-name Sophie in with him. And I wouldnt dream of intruding on their little love nest, would I? Youll let me stay, just for a while?
I stepped aside without a word. What could I say? Toss a sixty-year-old woman onto the street? Yes, the divorce had been brutal. Yes, Christopher had turned out to be the sort of man who, after twelve years of marriage, suddenly found himself in the arms of a twenty-five-year-old colleague. But why should *his* mother be *my* problem?
Margaret, I said quietly, shutting the door behind her, you have your own flat. Why come here?
Oh, Emily, she tutted, already settling onto the sofa and untying her sensible shoes, you know how cramped that place is. This is so much brighter, so much more *space*. Christopher said youre rattling around alone in this two-bedderwhats the harm in keeping an old woman company?
I clenched my fists. Of course Christopher had said that. How convenientinstalling his new girlfriend while palming his mother off on me. And nobody cared how *I* felt.
Its just temporary, Margaret repeated, shrugging off her coat. Until I sort myself out.
For the first week, I tried to be understanding. Made breakfast for two, picked up the urgent prescriptions she needed, bit my tongue as I washed her dirty dishes. Margaret was a dreadful housemateleaving mugs everywhere, blasting telly dramas late into the night, scattering her knitting like some absent-minded sitcom granny.
Emily, love, she chirped one morning, my pensions barely covering the essentials. Could you spare a few quid for groceries? And these new heart tabletstheyre ever so dear.
I handed over fifty pounds without a word. Then thirty for vitamins. Then twenty for a little treat.
A month in, when yet another request left my wallet empty, I finally spoke up. Margaret, perhaps you should budget better. Im not made of money.
She spun on me, eyes flashing. I knew that lookthe prelude to a full-blown performance.
*Budget better*? Her voice climbed an octave. How *dare* you! I welcomed you into this family! Twelve years, I treated you like a daughter! And now youre begrudging me a few pennies for my health?
Im not begrudging
You wouldnt understand sacrifice! she shrieked, flinging her arms wide. I raised Christopher alone after his father died! Worked three jobs! And now you grumble over a few pills? Ill tell the neighbours what youre really likeungrateful girl!
I endured it. Just as I endured the next scene over inedible dinners, the neighbours pitying looks, the way she weaponised her age like a royal decree.
After one particularly spectacular tantrum, I rang Christopher.
Take your mother back. Now.
Em, dont be dramatic. Im building a life here. Mums fragile since the divorce, and youve got the space
Its costing me money, sanity, and peace.
Stop exaggerating. Shes elderlyshow some decency.
The dial tone buzzed in my ear. Hed hung up.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I realised I was done. Margaret held court like a duchess, demanded funds like a tax collector, and never once doubted her right to do so.
*She thought fear would keep me paying. She didnt know I had other plans.*
Next morning, while she was at the GPs, I called a locksmith. New bolts fitted in an hour.
That evening, Margaret returned from her daily mooch around Marks & Spencer, jangling her key uselessly.
Emily! Open the door! Whats this nonsense?
I stepped onto the landing, calm as you please. No nonsense. Your taxis outside.
Have you lost your mind? Where am I supposed to go?
Home. To your son. Where you belong.
I cant! Sophies there! Its *awkward*!
And *this* wasnt? I asked, watching her face harden into its familiar battle lines.
You heartless girl! she screeched. Im an old woman! My hearts *fragile*!
And this is *my* flat.
Ill tell the whole street what youve done!
Tell them. I dont care anymore.
Her suitcase packed quicklyshed brought little. In the cab, she wheezed theatrically, clutching her chest like a Victorian widow.
At Christophers building, I hauled her case to the third floor. He answered in joggers, baffled.
Em? Mum? Whats going on?
Youre getting your mother back, I said, shoving the suitcase inside. Shes no longer my problem.
Sophie appeared in a dressing gown, paling at the sight of Margaret.
She cant stay here! Christopher spluttered. Weve only just
started your new life, I finished. Lovely. Enjoy it. Without me.
You dont understand, he said, deploying that patronising tone he reserved for toddlers and waitstaff. Mum needs care. Her pensions tiny
She has a son. *He* can care.
But Ive got commitments!
And Ive got boundaries.
Margaret, silent till then, erupted. Christopher! See how she treats me? Throwing out a frail old woman! Cruel!
Mum, dont he stammered, but I saw the panic in his eyes.
Your choice what you do with her, I said, turning away. But none of you will ever set foot in my home again.
Emily, wait! he called after me.
I didnt look back.
At home, I booked a fortnight in Tenerifeall-inclusive, funded by the furniture savings. A small price for sanity.
Christopher rang that night. How could you be so cold? Mums devastated.
Let her be devastated in *your* living room.
Sophie and I are trying to settle
Not my concern.
I hung up and switched off my phone.
For three days, it buzzed with callsChristopher, Margaret, even unknown numbers (probably her bingo cronies). I ignored them all.
By Thursday, sipping coffee in blissful silence, I watched kids play in the courtyard. No demands. No melodrama. Just peace.
Then the doorbell. Sophie stood there, red-eyed.
Emily, can we talk?
About?
Margaret. I know youve had a falling-out, but
I set a boundary.
Shes difficult, Sophie whispered. Blames me for the divorce. Screams if dinners late. Chris hides at work, and Im stuck with her.
A month ago, Id have pitied her. Now? Your family. Your problem.
But surely we can share the
No.
She lingered, hoping for mercy. I gave none.
I thought youd understand, she murmured, turning away.
I do. I understand that adults handle their own messes.
On Friday, Mrs. Jenkins from downstairs cornered me at the bins. Emily, love, is it true you turned Margaret out? Shes *elderly*.
Elderly enough to scream at me for undercooked roast potatoes.
But *family*
Family doesnt mean freeloading.
She nodded, lips pursed. Recognised the truth in that.
Saturday brought Christophers final text: *Youve changed. Turned hard and selfish.* I deleted it.
Sunday morning, I locked up, checked my travel docs, and slid into the waiting cab.
On the plane, champagne in hand, I reflected on how easily Id let others exploit me. Twelve years as the easy wife. A month as the dutiful ex. No more.
Somewhere over the Channel, Margaret was likely berating Christopher and Sophie over tea. Somewhere, my ex-husband was scrambling to offload his mother without looking like a cad. Somewhere, a younger woman was learning the price of dating a mummys boy.
And I? I was flying toward sea and sun, guilt-free for the first time in years.
As the wheels touched down, I smiled at my reflection. Maybe I *had* changed.
