Dear Diary,
I still cant quite work out why Emma was so tense when her mother called to say she would be staying with us for a few days until she actually arrived and took over our lives.
When Margaret Hughes rang to announce her impending visit, I instantly saw Emmas shoulders tighten. I didnt understand why. After all, Margaret lives alone in Manchester and rarely makes the trip to our quiet cottage near Windermere. I thought it would be a pleasant chance for a family gathering.
But as the days drew nearer, Emma grew increasingly nervous.
Why are you so worked up? I asked, trying to laugh it off. Shell be here for a short while, enjoy the company, see the kids it cant be that dreadful.
Emma gave me a weary, resigned look.
You dont know her the way I do, she whispered.
At that moment I was convinced she was overreacting.
Little did I know what lay ahead.
The invasion
Margaret turned up with two massive suitcases, as if she intended to move in permanently. She didnt even pause for a kiss before stepping inside, scanning the house with a critical eye, like an inspector judging whether everything met her standards.
At first everything seemed normal. She hugged us, handed presents to the children, and left a bag packed with homemade jam, biscuits and premade pies.
I told myself Emma was simply being overly anxious.
Then the next morning arrived.
And our home was no longer ours.
This is your coffee? How awful! How can you drink something so bitter? she exclaimed, watching me sip from my mug.
I smiled, assuming she was joking.
She was far from finished.
These curtains are hideous! They make the room look gloomy. They need to be replaced.
Why have you placed the sofa there? It makes no sense! The whole layout has to be redone.
You still dont know how to wash dishes properly? First rinse with hot water, then scrub, then rinse again!
Within a few hours she had seized control of the house, upending our routines and imposing her own rules.
Emma stayed silent, but I could see how much she was holding back.
Margaret wasnt about to stop there.
Déjà vu
The whole situation reminded me oddly of an episode a few months earlier with Emmas younger sister, Lucy.
Margaret had visited Lucy in Bristol, planning to stay two weeks, yet she left after just four days. We wondered why; Lucy is always gentle and never complains.
Eventually we pieced it together.
In Bristol Margaret behaved exactly the same way: critiquing the childrens upbringing, rearranging the kitchen, dictating how Lucy should run her life.
Lucy could not endure it for long. She quietly packed a bag, bought a train ticket and saw Margaret off at the station without a word.
Now the pattern was repeating.
Only this time we were the ones caught.
Point of no return
After four days the strain became unbearable.
When I got home from work, I found Emma sitting at the kitchen table, her stare empty.
I sat opposite her.
I cant take this any longer, she murmured.
That morning Margaret had crossed every line.
You dont make a proper breakfast for your husband? Just cereal? Thats a childs meal!
You never call me! A daughter must look after her mother!
Ive been thinking what if I moved in with you? Im alone in Manchester; youre my family now
It was too much.
We realised that if we did nothing, she would never leave.
The next morning we summoned all our courage and told her it was time to go home.
She froze.
Oh, I see Im a bother. Youre kicking me out, just like you did with Lucy, right?
We tried to explain that we simply needed our own space and were exhausted, but she refused to hear it.
In silence she packed her suitcases and walked out without even a goodbye.
The calm after the storm
When she finally left, the quiet that settled over the house felt almost surreal.
Emma and I lingered in the kitchen, sipping tea in a heavy silence, still reeling from the past few days.
Do you think shell ever forgive us? she asked softly.
I sighed. I have no idea.
For the first time in a week I felt a genuine sense of relief.
A neverending circle
A week later Lucy called.
I cant believe you did that to Mum! she shouted, sounding outraged.
Emma and I exchanged a look. How ironic.
When Margaret stayed with Lucy, she hadnt lasted more than four days before sending her packing. Now we were being blamed for doing the very same thing.
We sat in stunned silence after the call, each lost in thought.
Do all parents become this way as they agemore invasive, more demanding, more oppressive? And the most frightening question of all
Will we ever become like her?
