**Diary Entry, 30th December**
I’ve always believed that a family is like an old oak—the deeper the roots, the stronger it stands. Relatives, even those you’ve only just come to know, are still people fate has woven into your story. My husband and I made an effort with everyone: in-laws, distant cousins. Especially after our eldest, Emily, married. Children have a way of binding people together. We were glad she’d found a good man—James, steady but not harsh, the sort who keeps his temper. They’re renting a flat in Manchester for now, and we’re helping them save for a place of their own. It’s not easy, but we manage. Nobody handed us anything on a silver platter, either.
James’s mother, Margaret, and I got on well enough at first. She lives in Leeds, so most of our chats were over the phone, with the odd visit here and there. Polite, respectful—everything seemed fine. But as Christmas approached, something shifted. And it wasn’t on our end.
A few days before the holidays, I rang Emily—just a warm, ordinary call.
“Love, hello! Have you and James decided where you’ll be for New Year’s?”
“Oh, Mum, we haven’t settled yet…”
“Why not come to us? Plenty of room, the tree’s up, your father’s already hung the fairy lights in the garden. We’ve even dusted off the karaoke machine. And do invite Margaret—your dad can fetch her and drop her back after. Why spend it alone?”
Emily said she’d talk to James and ring me later. That evening, she called back: they’d come, but his mother wouldn’t. Apparently, she had plans with friends or might just stay in. Some tradition of hers, she’d said—quiet nights, no fuss. It didn’t sit right with me. Was it really so hard to spend one evening with family? I meant no harm—only kindness. So I rang Margaret myself.
“Margaret, love, it’s bleak staying in alone! Come to ours, I mean it—you’ll have your own room, bring friends if you’d like. We’ll have a barbecue out back, fireworks, a proper sing-song. It’ll be lovely!”
But she brushed it off, half-hearted.
“Not sure. I’ve spent the last ten years with friends. If they invite me, I’ll go. If not—telly, blanket, and bed. At my age, noise isn’t much fun.”
I let it go. Maybe she truly preferred it that way. But the next day, Emily phoned again, her voice wobbling.
“Mum, she’s furious… Says we’ve betrayed her. That I’m ‘stealing her son,’ that he ought to be with her for New Year’s. She wanted us all crammed in her tiny flat—can you imagine?”
I was stunned. So we were villains for inviting them to a home where there’s space to breathe? We’ve five spare rooms, a dining hall, a garden big enough for a bonfire. She’s got a cramped two-bed where even a handful of guests would be elbow-to-elbow. Even if we’d all squeezed in—what then? An hour of small talk, half-watching the telly, then back to the cars? New Year’s is meant to be about warmth, laughter—being together.
Then came her final blow, delivered straight to the children:
“If I’ve no family left, I’ll just go to my friends.”
And she made sure they knew not to expect a penny toward their house now. Money’s tight, apparently.
My husband and I exchanged a look. He just scoffed.
“Fine by us. We weren’t counting on it.”
You know, there are always those people—the sort who take offence at an open hand. To them, kindness is weakness, and any choice that isn’t theirs is a betrayal. Margaret’s one of them. She walked off, nursed her grudge, and slammed the door herself. Do I feel sorry? I’d be lying if I said no. It’s a shame when someone who could’ve been closer chooses bitterness instead. But as they say—we’ll survive.
And the children? They’ll welcome the new year with those who love them. Not with those who grip them by the throat with guilt.
