Dear Diary,
Did she really say it exactly like that? I asked my husband, James, as he sipped from his mug. The tea was still steaming, and he winced at the heat.
Yes, exactly. My sister demanded that Mom transfer the flat to her and move out, because William has proposed to her. The young couple need somewhere to live, you see? James said in a high, slightly mocking tone, sounding oddly like Sarah.
I stared at him, unable to believe my ears. It was absurddemanding a property from your parents as if it were a gift?
What did Mom say? I asked cautiously.
James shook his head. She hasnt given a clear answer. But I know my mother well, and I know how much she dotes on Sarah. So anythings possible.
Could a daughter really push her own mother out of the family home? I would never have imagined saying something like that to my parents. Id even refused to ask them for a deposit. I saved every penny, bought a flat, and paid off the mortgage before we even married. That place was my sanctuary, my own.
Remember, James continued, glancing off into the distance, Mum sold the cottage last year to fund Sarahs tuition. And what happened? She dropped out in her second year. Turns out university does actually require studying, can you imagine?
I snorted. Your sister never was known for staying the course.
James fell silent. I could see the tension in his shoulders, his fingers tightening around the mug. What could I say? What advice could I offer? Family is always complicated.
Days turned into weeks. James called his mother a few times, each conversation short and strained. I kept my distance, knowing this was his burden to bear.
One Saturday we decided to visit Margaret, Jamess mother.
James used his key to open the door, and I froze on the threshold. The flat was a chaos of cardboard boxes, suitcases, rolled blankets. Things were piled against the walls, on the sofa, on the tableevery surface a testament to an imminent move.
Mom? James called as we stepped inside.
Margaret emerged from the bedroom, her face drawn, shadows under her eyes. I had never seen Jamess mother look so exhausted.
James, Eleanor, come in, she whispered.
James scanned the rooms and asked directly, Are you giving the flat to Sarah?
Margaret sighed, lowered herself onto the edge of the sofa, and moved a dishcovered box aside.
Itll be better this way, love. A young couple needs their own place. Williams a good lad, steady job. They deserve somewhere of their own, and I can manage.
I stood there, my stomach churning. How could anyone hand over the only flat they owned? Where would Margaret go?
Where will you live? James asked hoarsely.
Ill rent a room. My pension is modest, but itll be enough. Dont worry about me.
I saw Jamess complexion go pale, his hands tremble, yet I said nothing. This wasnt my battle.
Two months passed. Margaret moved into a rented flat in another district. James visited often, bringing groceries, medication, helping with chores. I never objected; I understood his worry.
One evening James came home looking downcast, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the wall.
Whats wrong? I asked, pulling up a chair opposite him.
He lifted his eyes slowly. Mum cant make ends meet on her pension. Shes barely covering rent and basics.
I frowned. Then she should move back into her flat.
The flats already in Sarahs name. She refuses to let Mum back in, saying she and William are planning renovations and Mum would be in the way.
I sensed where this was heading. James seemed to have read my thoughts.
We should take Mum in, he said. We still have our twobed flat; theres space.
My heart thudded. That flat was *my* flat. His words echoed in my mind, but I stayed silent, letting him persuade himself, even though every fibre of me resisted. How could I refuse to let his motherwho had been evicted by his own sistermove in? It felt cruel.
Four days later Margaret moved in with us. The first day she was sweet, apologetic, promising not to be a burden. I told myself everything would be fine; wed never fought with a motherinlaw before. What could possibly go wrong?
A week later, things began to shift.
First, my favorite blue mug with the roses vanished.
Margaret, have you seen my mug? I asked.
She blinked, then said, Oh, dear, Im sorry. I knocked it over while washing the dishes. Ill buy you a new one, I promise.
I nodded, shrugging it off.
The next day, the premium handcream I kept in the bathroom was gone.
Margaret, have you seen my cream? I inquired.
She held up an empty tube. I used it on my feet. The air here is so dry; my skin was cracking. Its a good cream, by the way.
I clenched my teeth, thinking Id just buy another.
The final straw was the meat. Id bought a pricey fillet for dinner, planning steaks. When I got home from work, the pan held greasy meatballs made from a mix of breadcrumbs and a tiny sliver of beef.
Margaret, I tried to stay calm, this is an expensive cut. Its not meant for meatballs.
She turned from the stove. I always do it this way. The meatballs are lovely, give them a try.
James, lounging in the living room, pretended not to hear.
Weeks went by and Margaret established a strict routine. Breakfast became oatmeal and a boiled egg. Every Saturday she conducted a thorough house cleaning, starting at eight in the morning. Lights were out by nine, even on weekends.
I walked through the house, barely containing my fury. James kept telling me to be patient, promising to speak with his mother, but nothing changed.
At dinner I spread cream cheese on toast, added a slice of tomato. I was exhausted after a long day and didnt feel like cooking anything elaborate.
You have no taste, Eleanor, Margaret sneered. Thats what you eat?
I lifted my head slowly. Its fine for me.
Youre ruining my sons habits, she snapped, her voice rising. James watches you, thinks its okay to be lazy, not to wash dishes right away, not to iron clothes. I raised him with order and neatness, and youre tearing it all down.
My patience snapped.
Ive endured enough, I said, coldly. Ive tried to respect your age, stayed silent while you broke my things, used my cosmetics, ruined my food. Thats it. If things are this bad, you can move back to the flat you gave to my sister. Dont stay in the house I bought with my own money.
Youre insane! James shouted, leaping up. What are you saying?
Im saying exactly what I think! I turned to him. I have my own rules, too. Firstyour mother will not live in my house!
Margaret turned pale.
James! Do you hear what your wife is saying? Stop her! James pleaded.
Mom, Eleanor, lets calm down, he tried to mediate.
No! I stared at Margaret. She can pack and go. I dont care where.
You cant just kick my mother out! James raised his voice. Do you understand what youre saying?
I let out a hoarse, bitter laugh. You cant do it, but I can. By evening, she wont be here.
Jamess face hardened like stone. If she leaves, Ill go too.
I looked at him for a long moment. Oh, have we really come to ultimatums? You forgot the promise you made to keep your mother out of my life. You asked me to be patient, and now youre setting conditions? Well played, James.
Margaret burst into tears and fled down the hallway. James stood in the kitchen, stunned.
We began gathering our things in silence. I didnt help; I sat at the kitchen table, staring out the window. An empty, cold feeling settled over me, oddly soothing.
After about an hour, James and Margaret emerged into the hallway with suitcases, bags, parcels. James opened the front door, letting his mother step out first, then turned to me.
Eleanor, lets
I cut him off. If you still dont get that my mother loves only her daughter and is using you, were better off parting now, before she completely takes over our lives.
I walked to the door and slammed it shut right in front of Jamess face.
Letting Margaret in was a mistake. It revealed that James could never stand up to his mother, meaning there was no future for us. The divorce was quiet; we had no children or shared assets. James looked at me with sorrowful eyes, begging for forgiveness, promising never to involve his mother in our marriage again. I simply could not give anyone a second chance.
