**Diary Entry 12th May**
Six years ago, Emma and I scraped together every penny to buy our own place, sacrificing holidays, meals out, even new clothes. At last, we had a cosy two-bed flatsmall but bright, with just enough room to feel like home. It was meant to be the start of our little family. Emma was days away from giving birth, everything prepared: the hospital bag packed, the nursery set up. We were ready.
Emma had always wanted a space of her ownno hovering parents, and *especially* no interference from her mother-in-law. Margaret had a way of dictating how we should live, down to how we stacked the dishwasher. One day, Emma snapped and told her plainly she didnt need constant advice. Margaret took offence and vanished from our lives. For a while.
When I drove Emma to the hospital, I never expected what came next. The very next day, my mother rang to announce she was coming round. No chance to refuse. Margaret arrived in full force, inspecting the flat like a drill sergeant: the hallway”tolerable,” the curtains”ghastly,” the kitchen”a disgrace, needs scrubbing daily!” She rummaged through the fridge, scoffing at the ready-made meals and declaring shed make proper soup tomorrow. I tried joking, changing the subjectno use. She marched off in her tracksuit to survey the rest like a general.
That evening, I offered to drive her home. “Ill stay the night,” she said. “You shouldnt be alone in case Emma comes back tomorrow.” And she did. One night. Then another. Then another.
While I was at work, she rearranged our things, sorted our clothes, decided where the changing table should go and what we still needed. I bit my tongue, not wanting to upset her. Then she dropped the news: shed stay for a few months to *help* with the baby. Wed never manage without her.
When Emma came home, the whole family was thereher parents, me, and of course, beaming Margaret. Emma knew instantly something was off. The curtains were different, the furniture rearranged, an odd smell lingering. Her parents left. Margaret didnt. Under Emmas silent stare, I mumbled, “Mums staying a while. To help”
Exhausted from labour, Emma had no choice. That night, the nitpicking began: “Youre holding him wrong,” “That swaddles too loose,” “Hes crying because youre not rocking him properly.” Emma stayed quietuntil Margaret snatched the baby from her arms. That was it.
“Thank you, but were fine on our own,” Emma said, calm as steel. “Hes *my* son. And Ill rock him. Just me.”
Margaret huffed, deeply insulted. I stammered something feeble, but one look from Emma shut me up. She was steady. Unshakable. This was *her* home. *Her* family.
Margaret packed her bags. She never came back. I realised thenmy wife didnt need instructions. She needed support. And for the first time, Emma truly felt like this was *her* home. Doesnt matter how long it took. What mattered was she didnt back down.
**Lesson learned: Sometimes, the kindest thing you can do is step aside and let someone else take the leadespecially when theyve earned it.**
