**Diary Entry**
*”Is your daughter screaming again?!”* That came from the woman who calls herself a grandmother.
*”Why is your daughter screaming again?!”* My mother-in-law spat the words with such disdain, as if I’d brought some stranger’s child into the house instead of her own flesh and blood.
*”She’s ill—she’s got a fever,”* I tried to explain, breathless from exhaustion and frayed nerves.
*”I don’t care! Make her stop! My head is splitting!”* she snapped, not even glancing toward the nursery, where my little girl lay on crumpled sheets, wheezing weakly through the heat of her fever.
I dashed around the flat like a trapped animal. The child whimpered, her tiny body wracked with pain. I hunted for Calpol, checked the bottle of water, drew the curtains to block the harsh daylight. Finally, I flicked on the star projector—the only thing that ever soothed her. She’d stare at those flickering constellations on the ceiling and, just for a moment, stop crying. In that brief respite, I sprinted to the kitchen—making porridge, brewing chamomile tea, checking nappies—all at once. And all alone.
Meanwhile, my mother-in-law lounged in her armchair, draped in a faux snakeskin dress, like some self-styled queen. She groaned about her *”splitting headache”*, demanded silence, and accused me of *”not being able to shut my child up.”*
*”Listen here,”* she hissed as I hurried past, *”you’ll be out of this house soon. You and that whining brat. My son could’ve had girls ten times better. He didn’t marry just to live in a madhouse! He’ll tire of this family nonsense—mark my words.”*
And you know what? *Sod off.* That’s what I wished I’d said. But I clenched my jaw and rushed back to the nursery because my little girl was crying again—burning up, in pain, with no one to hold her but me. I tucked the blanket around her, kissed her hot forehead, held her tight.
Then back to the kitchen. And back to her venom.
*”Proper mothers don’t raise screamers.”*
*”That child’s just spoiled rotten.”*
*”Women like you are a disgrace.”*
*”My son deserves a proper wife, not this—”*
And where was my husband? Always busy. Blind to how his mother poisoned every day. *”Ignore her,”* he’d say. *”She’s just set in her ways.”* But my shaking hands, the exhaustion dragging me down, the fact our daughter was ill and I was drowning in it alone? None of that seemed to matter.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds. I don’t know how much longer I can last in this house where my daughter and I are despised. But I know one thing—I won’t let anyone belittle her again. I’ll leave if I must. I’ll fight. I’m not just a wife or a daughter-in-law anymore. I’m a *mother.* And that means I’m stronger than they think.
**Lesson learned:** Blood doesn’t make family. Love does. And no one gets to dictate how I protect mine.
