**Diary Entry – 12th October**
I once seriously considered putting one of my flats in my son’s name. Thought it’d give him a fresh start—no more renting, no financial strain. But after what I’ve seen and heard from his wife, the very idea repulses me. No, let them save for their own place. The flat stays mine. And if they divorce? I’d breathe a sigh of relief. Because it isn’t just disapproval—I’m afraid of my son’s choice. His wife, Emily, has been nothing short of a disappointment.
Her family’s perfectly ordinary—no grand connections or wealth—yet she carries on as if she were raised in a manor with staff. Her parents are quiet, down-to-earth people, nothing like their daughter, who acts like royalty. She has an average education, works as a manager on a modest salary, yet burns through her wages in days, then shamelessly begs my son for more. Constantly. No hint of conscience.
When they were evicted from their rented place after the wedding, I took them in out of kindness—just until my other flat was free from tenants. I didn’t have to, but I did it for my son. And almost instantly, I regretted it. The moment Emily stepped inside, her face twisted in disgust, as if she’d walked into a hovel. Never mind that my home is tidy, well-kept, with decent furnishings.
*”Am I supposed to sleep on the sofa? Couldn’t your mum at least give up her bed?”* she snipped at him.
The sofa wasn’t good enough? Yet she’d slept on one in their rented flat without complaint. And my son—once so strong-willed, so independent—turned into a doormat around her. He bends over backward, tolerating everything. I hardly recognize him. What’s she done to him? I can’t fathom it.
Those months under one roof were pure torment. After work, I’d retreat to my room, dodging any interaction. Just to avoid that perpetual sneer on Emily’s face. Silence between us was a blessing.
When they finally moved into the other flat, I felt nothing but relief. Then, carefully, my son started testing the waters: *”Mum, any plans for that flat? Thinking of putting it in my name?”* I knew where that came from. Not him—Emily whispering in his ear. My reply was firm:
*”The flat stays in my name. It’s my safety net for old age—so I won’t be a burden. Live there, save for your own place. Besides, it’s not ideal for a young family—the layout’s dated.”*
He seemed to accept it. The subject dropped, and we saw less of each other. Life moves on. I kept my distance.
Then, last week, my son invited us for his birthday celebration at their flat. I stepped inside—and froze. The mess was staggering. The hob crusted with grease, floors sticky, dust thick on every surface. Unpacked boxes everywhere. Even the guests noticed.
Emily’s mother, ever diplomatic, murmured, *”Emily, love, why’s the place in such a state?”*
Her reply crushed me:
*”Why should I bother? It’s not my flat. I’m not lifting a finger in someone else’s house.”*
Her mother was stunned into silence.
*”But you cleaned when you were at the rented flat—and that wasn’t yours either!”* she shot back.
My son stood there. His face said it all—he was revolted. He grew up in a clean, orderly home, and now he lives in this… nightmare. It’s eating at him, but he stays silent. Because once, he loved her. Now? That fire’s gone. All that’s left is habit… or fear.
I didn’t say a word to Emily. Just held her gaze. I know he won’t endure this forever. And deep down, I hope for one thing—their divorce. Yes, it’s bitter, but true: if they split, I’ll be glad. Because my son deserves warmth, care, a real partner. Not this—a woman who scorns everything, incapable of even simple gratitude.
