**Diary Entry**
“You were always the spare wheel in this family,” my mother-in-law muttered, watching me with those piercing eyes.
“Margaret, Ive made some stewed fruitwould you like to try it?” I offered cautiously, peeking into the parlour where my mother-in-law sat embroidering yet another doily.
She didnt even glance up from her hoop.
“I dont want your stewed fruit. I have diabetes, remember? Or do you not care?”
I sighed and stepped away. Diabetes? I knew she didnt have itthis was just another way to twist the knife, to remind me I didnt belong in a house Id lived in for seven years.
“Mum, not again,” my husband said from the hallway. “Emilys trying her best”
“Trying!” she scoffed. “Forgets the salt in the soup, ruins your shirts in the wash, and the house is always dusty.”
I sank onto the stool by the stove, staring at the saucepan. Seven years of the same. Every day, something newtoo salty, not salty enough, floors too clean, not clean enough.
“James will be home soon,” I said, carrying a tray into the parlour. “Maybe we could still have supper together?”
Margaret set aside her needlework and looked at me with that familiar expressioncontempt mixed with pity.
“Ill eat in my room. I cant bear watching you poison my son with your cooking.”
The door slammed. I stood alone, tray in hand, throat tight.
James returned late, barely greeting me before shovelling food into his mouth, eyes glued to his phone.
“How was work?” I asked, sitting opposite him.
“Fine,” he grunted.
“James, we need to talk.”
He looked up, irritated. “About Mum again? For Gods sake, Em, shes old. Shes allowed her opinions.”
“Old? Shes perfectly healthy! Its just her way of”
“Of what?” He set his fork down. “Living in her own house? Complaining? Its her home, Emily!”
“And mine! Im your wife, not the help!”
“Nobodys forcing you to cook and clean. Mum managed fine on her own for years.”
I fell silent. Pointless. James would never understandhow it felt to walk on eggshells, to be a stranger in your own home.
After supper, I stood before the bathroom mirror. Thirty-two, but I looked forty. Tired eyes, downturned mouth. When had I aged so much?
I remembered the girl I was when we metlaughing, full of dreams. Id thought Id married a princetall, handsome, steady job. His mother? Refined, cultureda retired English teacher.
“Emily dear,” shed said back then, “how lovely James found you. Hes such a homebodyhed be lost without a womans care.”
So I tried. Learned his childhood recipes, ironed his shirts just so, followed her unspoken cleaning schedule.
The first year was bearablegentle corrections, smiles masking criticism. But the tone sharpened. The bar rose.
“My friend Ediths daughter-in-law keeps such a lovely home,” shed sigh over tea. “Everything shines, meals are divineand shes so respectful.”
“Margaret, what am I doing wrong?” Id once dared to ask.
Shed arched a brow. “Nothing dreadful. Its justyour upbringing was different. Not your fault, of course.”
Id nodded, then cried at home. My mother had taught me the same thingscleanliness, hospitality, respect. But somehow, Margaret made it sound like failure.
James used to defend me. But over time, he stopped. Especially when she began complaining of ailments.
“Son, my heart aches with worry,” shed whisper when she thought I wasnt listening. “I only wanted your happiness.”
“Mum, whats Emily got to do with it?”
“Cant you see? She resents me. Ive tried to be a mother to her.”
Id stood frozen, bewildered. How had I shown resentment? I cooked, cleaned, nursed her through colds, fetched her medicines.
“James, Im trying!” Id pleaded.
“Trying, yes. But Mum senses insincerity.”
“Sincerity?”
“You go through the motionsno heart in it.”
So I poured heart into it. Asked after her health, listened to her stories, praised her teaching days. Still wrong.
“Youre too clingy,” shed said.
I withdrewonly to hear: “Youve shut us out. Think youre too good for us?”
A vicious circle. No winning.
The worst part? James started agreeing. First nods, then outright support.
“Mums right. Youve gone cold.”
“Cold? Or just exhausted from living like a guest?”
“Guest? This is our home!”
“Ours? Why cant I move a chair without her permission?”
“Because its her house! She built this home!”
After that, our marriage soured. James worked late, spoke little. Margaret stopped hiding her disdain.
“See what youve done to my son?” shed say when he left. “He used to be so cheerful.”
“Maybe its not me,” Id ventured.
“Oh? Who then? I suppose Im to blame for having no peace in my own home?”
Friends offered advice. “Move out! Rent, get a mortgageanything!”
“James wont. Says why waste money when weve a home here? Wholl care for Mum?”
“Let her care for herself! Shes not an invalid!”
I knew. But explaining to James was impossible.
The cruelest twist? Around others, Margaret transformeddotting on me, singing my praises.
“Our Emilys an angel!” shed tell the neighbours. “Keeps the house spotless, tends to me like her own mother.”
And theyd say, “Youre so lucky!”
Making me feel crazier. Was I the problem?
No children. At first, it just didnt happen. Then I stopped wanting them. Could I raise a child under her scrutiny?
“When will you give me grandchildren?” shed ask.
“Were trying.”
“Seen a doctor? Or is it your little job?”
Little job? I earned pennies at the fabric shopbut there, I was myself. Respected. Needed.
“Perhaps you should stay home,” James said once. “Mum gets lonely.”
“On what? Your salary?”
“Wed manage. She worries.”
“Id worry! I need work, James!”
He didnt understand. To him, a wifes place was domesticlike his mothers.
Then, an ordinary Tuesday. I came home, groceries in hand, to a note: *Away on business. Back in a week. Look after Mum.*
Margaret sat watching telly. She muted it when I entered.
“James is gone. Just us now. Lets see how you behave without him here.”
I started dinner. She kept talking.
“Ive thought long about why you dislike me. And Ive realisedyoure jealous.”
The knife slipped. Blood dripped onto the potatoes.
“You envy my place in Jamess heart. That Im firstyoure just temporary.”
Something snapped. I turned.
“Youre right. I do envy you.”
She blinked.
“I envy that you speak your mind. That your word is law. That youve made me feel unwelcome in my own home.”
“You ungrateful girl!”
“No. Just honest. Youre not some fragile old womanyoure bitter your son grew up.”
She stood, flushed. “How dare you! In my house!”
“*Our* house! Ive every right to be here!”
“You were always the spare wheel,” she hissed.
I paused at the door.
“Maybe. But the saddest part? I believed it. Spent seven years thinking I wasnt good enough. But I am. I love James. Ive earned my place. You just refuse to see it.”
Supper was silent. She locked herself away. I ate alone, washed up, sipped tea by the window.
For the first time in yearspeace. Id spoken my truth. The sky hadnt fallen.
James called that night.
“Hows Mum?”
“We argued.”
“About what?”
“About me finally finding my voice.”
Silence.
“James, we need to talk when youre back.”
“Not this again”
“Yes. Because its about *our* family. My place in it.”
After, I sat by the window, watching the city lights. Tomorrow would be hard. So would the next day. But I wouldnt stay silent anymore. Wouldnt feel like a spare wheel in my own life.
Wed see where that led.
*A man must choose his battles
