**Diary Entry**
Ill never forget the day my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, finally showed her true colours. Shed always despised me, the common girl whod dared marry her precious son, James. Shed done everything to talk him out of it, but he wouldnt listenat least, not at first. And there I was, a girl from the Midlands, refusing to bow to her pretentious London airs.
*”Listen, Margaret,” I said that day, my voice steady. “You can play the wise matriarch all you like, but we both know you cant stand me. Because I see right through youand I wont bend to your whims. Why do you barge into our flat every evening uninvited? Its not as if were living off your money.”*
Her face twisted. *”How dare you lecture me? Wait until youve lived as long as I have”*
The mask slipped then. All that refined dignity vanished, revealing the petty, grasping woman underneath. Margaret had spent her life chasing comfortsweet treats, an easy existenceand heaven help anyone who got in her way.
*”James and I love each other,” I pressed. “And Ive noticed how your little talks upset him. Wasnt it enough that you drove out his father and swindled him out of his share of the flat? Now you wont even let your son live in peace. If you cant love him yourself, at least let someone else try.”*
She exploded. *”Oh, so thats your tune now? You little upstart! Who do you think you are? Some nobody fromwhere was itBlackpool? Youll be out on the street the moment you lose that measly café job. How dare you speak to me like this!”*
I didnt back down. *”So decency is measured by whos conned their way into property, is it? Because youve made a fine art of that. But if I earn my own keep, thats somehow shameful? Not all of us had the luxury of marrying into a London flat and bleeding our husbands dry. And for the recordI know you werent born here either.”*
That struck a nerve. Margaret had come to London decades ago, a girl from some backwater village with no education and no prospects.
*”Youll never keep my son! A mother is sacredget out!”* She had nothing left but empty platitudes.
I only smirked and walked away. It didnt change a thingJames and I married anyway.
But Margaret didnt give up. When our son, Oliver, was born, she turned James against me. By the time we divorced, Oliver was barely four.
Little did she know, it was all a ruse. James still lived with us, still played with Oliver, still came home to our tiny, warm flat every night. Officially, he was working in Manchester, staying in company housing. But the truth was simpler: hed been reckless years before, tangled up with a so-called friend, Daniel, whod left him drowning in debt.
Id warned him. *”James, dont trust him. Daniels a shark. Youre just a mark to him.”*
But James had insisted. *”Men stick together, Emily. Thats how the world works.”*
Daniel made him director of a sham company, then vanished with every penny, leaving James to face the creditors alone.
So we faked the divorce. Margaret gloated, thinking shed won. Meanwhile, James sent alimony from his modest salary while we scraped by in our cramped flat.
My mum, Helen, begged me to leave. *”Emily, why are you supporting him? Youve got nothing but a shoebox flat and a string of part-time jobs. Hes not even your husband anymore!”*
But I couldnt abandon him. Not when he was trying so hard.
Then Mum hatched a plan. She went to Margaret, laid it all out: the debts, the sham divorce, how I was breaking my back to keep us afloat.
Margaret was furious. *”He lied to me? Hes still withher?!”*
But when Mum suggested they pool their savings to help, Margaret scoffed. *”Not a chance. Hes a grown manlet him rot.”*
So Mum took us in. *”Come live with me. Well manage.”*
James, humbled, agreed. He even apologised for mocking my family all those years ago. Pride meant nothing now.
Then Mum rang my estranged father, Robert. To my shock, he agreed to helpon one condition: a dinner with Mum.
Years passed. By Olivers eighteenth birthday, wed all reconciled. Mum and Dad remarried. James and I did toothough Mum insisted we wait until after Dad bought me a flat in my name.
That night, as we celebrated, the doorbell rang.
Oliver answeredand there stood Margaret, hesitant on the threshold.
*”You invited her?”* I whispered.
*”Mum, shes been calling Shes lonely,”* Oliver admitted.
Margarets voice wavered. *”I I came to apologise. I thought youd beg for my help. But no one did. And I realised Im not as heartless as I thought.”*
Silence. Then someone poured her tea. Passed the biscuits.
None of us had ever mastered fine dining. But wed learned something better: forgiveness.
