**Diary Entry 21st November, 2023**
Mark brought his mother to live in my flat without warning.
“Mums going to stay with us for a while,” he said, shifting awkwardly in the cramped hallway. “There was a burst pipe in her place, and the repairs will take ages. Cant exactly leave her homeless, can we?”
I froze, clutching a towel, my damp hair darkening the shoulders of my old dressing gown. Behind Mark stood his mother, Margaret, with two enormous suitcases and a cardboard box tied up with string.
“Hello, love,” she said cheerfully, as if she didnt notice my stunned expression. “Dont you worry, I wont be underfoot for long. Just until the plumbers finisha month, tops.”
A *month*? In a 300-square-foot flat where the kitchens the size of a cupboard and the bathrooms barely big enough to turn around? My chest tightened.
“Lovely to see you, Margaret,” I forced a smile, panic clawing up my throat. “But are you sure youll be comfortable here? Maybe one of your friends could”
“Oh, dont be silly,” she waved me off, stepping inside. “At my age, whos got spare room? Besides, I wouldnt want to impose.”
*But imposing on us is fine*, I thought but bit my tongue.
“Lets put your things here, Mum,” Mark said, gesturing to the corner by the bookcase. “Youll take the sofa. Emily and I can manage the pull-out.”
“Absolutely not!” Margaret huffed. “Ill sleep on that rickety thing. You young ones need a proper bed.”
“Mum, your backs shot. You cant”
I tuned out, feeling like a stranger in my own hometechnically *my* flat, inherited from Gran before we married. Not that it mattered now. Mark had decided without me.
“Ill put the kettle on,” I muttered, retreating to the postage-stamp kitchen where the fridge, stove, and two-person table fought for space. “Margaret, you must be hungry after your trip?”
“Dont fuss, dear. I had a sandwich on the coach.” She was already unpacking onto the armchair. “Tell me, hows life treating you? Mark says youre managing, but this place is a shoebox. High time you moved somewhere bigger.”
My jaw clenched. A sore subject. Marks mechanic wages and my primary school teacher salary barely covered bills, let alone a mortgage.
“Weve talked about this, Mum,” Mark sighed. “Nows not the right time.”
“And when *will* it be?” She shook her head. “Youre thirty-two, Emilys twenty-eight. Should be thinking about childrenwhered you raise them *here*?”
Heat prickled my cheeks. Four years of marriage, and every visit came with a not-so-subtle nudge about grandchildren.
“Lets not do this now,” Mark shot me an apologetic look. “Long day for everyone.”
Margaret clicked her tongue but busied herself with her bags.
Alone in the kitchen, I gripped the counter. I loved Marktrulybut his inability to say no to her made my blood boil. Spring this on me with no discussion, no warning
The whistling kettle snapped me back. Through the rain-streaked window, the grey council blocks mirrored my mood.
“Need a hand, love?” Margarets voice made me jump.
“No, thanks. Just lost in thought.”
“About what?” She perched on a creaking chair.
“Work,” I lied. “Tough class this yeartwenty-eight kids, half with no discipline.”
“*Tsk*. In my day, children respected their elders.”
I poured tea, tuning out her nostalgia. Arguing was pointless.
Mark poked his head in. “Mum settling in? Oh, teabrilliant. Early shift tomorrow, so Ill turn in.”
“Of course, son,” Margaret patted his arm. “Emily and I will have a nice chat.”
*Just what I need*.
“How *are* things with you two?” she asked bluntly. “Mark says ‘fine,’ but I know when somethings off.”
“Everythings fine,” I kept my voice neutral.
“Wheres the spark, then? Hes lost weightare you feeding him properly?”
“I *try*,” I sipped tea to hide my irritation. “We both work late. Takeaways happen.”
“In *my* day, wives managed both.”
I bit back a retort. She was elderly, in a bind. For Marks sake, Id tolerate it.
“Ill cook more,” I said. “Any childhood favourites of his youd recommend?”
Her face lit up, and for thirty minutes, I endured a lecture on shepherds pie, roast beef, and puddings Mark had never mentioned in four years.
Finally, pleading exhaustion, I escaped to the bathroom. Locking the door, I slumped onto the tubs edge and exhaled. How would we survive this? No privacy, no peacejust suffocating scrutiny.
By morning, chaos reigned. Three people jostling for one bathroom. Margaret, despite her age, rose at dawn, hijacking my quiet coffee-and-makeup routine.
“Emily, I washed your blouse,” she announced at breakfast. “The white onecovered in stains.”
I choked on my coffee. “That was *soaking* in stain remover! It had red wine”
“Nonsense. Soap and warm waters all you need.”
In the bathroom, my favourite blouse now had a yellow tinge.
“Everything alright?” Mark hovered in the doorway. “Mum said you were upset. Ill buy you a new one.”
“Its not the blouse. Its her touching my things without asking. And youwhy didnt you *warn* me?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Knew youd say no. Shell be gone soon.”
But weeks passed, and Margaret dug in deeperrearranging cupboards, critiquing my cooking, even dictating TV schedules. I lingered at work, avoiding the flat.
“Youre never home,” Mark noted. “Mum said you got in at nine last night.”
“*Parents evening*,” I snapped. “Is she timing me now?”
“Shes just concerned. Thinks youre avoiding us.”
“*Am I wrong to?*” I met his eyes. “Every move I make gets dissected. I feel like a guest here.”
“Youre overreacting. She means well.”
“Does she? Because Im drowning, Mark. If she doesnt leave, *I* will.”
His face hardened. “And do *what*? Shes got nowhere else!”
“Then rent her a room! Or ask Aunt Joan. But I cant live like this.”
He sighed. “Ill talk to her.”
He didnt. Or if he did, nothing changed.
The final straw came Sunday morning. I walked in to find Margaret rummaging through my makeup bag.
“What are you doing?” I snatched it back.
“Oh, youre up! My hands were drythought Id borrow some cream.”
“You *ask first*.”
“Goodness, such fuss! Family shares everything.”
“Not *my* family.” My hands shook. “Respect my boundaries, or this wont work.”
“Selfish girl,” she spat. “No wonder modern marriages fail.”
Mark, watching silently, finally spoke. “Mum, shes right.”
“Taking her side? Over *hand cream*?”
“Its not about the cream!” I grabbed my coat. “Im going for a walk.”
Outside, November rain soaked me, but I barely felt it. An hour later, Marks fifth call went answered.
“*Where are you?*”
“Thinking. About us. About how I cant do this anymore.”
His anger crackled. “Youd leave over *this*?”
“No. Im leaving to *save* us. Ill stay with Sarah until your mums place is fixed. Then we talk.”
I hung up, numb but resolved. Sarahs spare room would do for now.
Maybe distance would make Mark seemarriage means *two* voices, not just his mothers. And maybe Margaret would learn: a wife isnt a project to remodel.
But for now, I wont go back. Not tonight.
**Lesson learned:** Love shouldnt mean vanishing into someone elses shadow. Sometimes, walking away is the only way to remind them you exist.
