**Diary Entry 14th March**
Three years ago, my mother-in-law threw me and my child out of her house. And now, she wonders why I refuse to speak to her.
Im thirty, living in London, raising my son, and doing my best to build a stable life. But deep down, the hurt hasnt faded. Because three years ago, a woman I saw as family tossed us out without a second thought. And now, she cant fathom why I wont acknowledge her. Worseshes offended by it.
William and I met in our first year at university. A proper whirlwind romanceno games, no parties, things turned serious fast. Then, surpriseI fell pregnant. Despite being on the pill, the test showed two lines. Of course, there was fear, panic, tears but abortion was out of the question. William didnt run. He proposed, and we married.
The problem? We had nowhere to live. My parents were up in Manchester, and since I was seventeen, Id been in student halls in London. William, though, had lived alone since he was sixteenhis mother, Margaret, remarried and moved to Bristol with her new husband, leaving her two-bed flat in Croydon to him. After we married, she *graciously* allowed us to stay there.
At first, it was fine. We studied, worked odd jobs, waited for our baby. I cleaned, cooked, pinched every penny. But everything changed when Margaret started visiting. Not just to chatto inspect. Shed open cupboards, check under the sofa, wipe a finger along the windowsill. Pregnant and exhausted, I scrubbed floors just to please her. No matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.
*”Why isnt the towel centred?” *”Crumbs on the kitchen rug!” *”Youre not a wife, youre a disaster!” her nagging never stopped.
When our son Oliver was born, it got worse. Barely sleeping, barely breastfeeding, yet she demanded hospital-grade cleanliness. I deep-cleaned three times a weekstill not good enough. One day, she snapped:
*”Ill be back in a week. If I see so much as a speck of dust, youre out.”*
I begged William to talk to her. He tried. Margaret wouldnt budge. When she returned and spotted old boxes on the balconyones I hadnt touched because they werent mineshe exploded.
*”Pack your things and go back to your parents! William can choosestay with you or stay here.”*
And William didnt betray me. He came with me to Manchester. We lived with my parents. He woke at six, attended lectures, worked evenings, came home late. I scraped by with odd online jobsbarely made a dent. Money was tight; we counted every pound, lived on beans on toast. Without my parents, we wouldnt have survived. Nor without each other.
Slowly, things improved. We graduated, found proper jobs, rented a place in London. Oliver grew. We became a proper family. But the wound? Still there.
Margaret lives alone now. The flat she kicked us from sits empty. She calls William sometimes, asks about her grandson, demands photos. He answers. He doesnt hold grudges. I do. To me, its betrayal. She wrecked us when we were weakest. Left us helpless.
*”Its my flat! I had every right!”* she says.
Maybe she did, legally. But decency? Kindness? Where were they when we stood at the station with a baby and two suitcases?
Im not spiteful. But I dont owe forgiveness. And Ill never step back into her life.
**Lesson learned:** Blood doesnt make familylove does. And some doors, once shut, should stay that way.
