**Diary Entry**
For six years, Emma and I—James—saved every penny, denying ourselves nearly everything, just to buy our own place. Finally, we got it: a modest two-bedroom flat, bright and cosy, even if the décor was simple. This was meant to be the start of something new—our family, our happiness. Emma was heavily pregnant, days away from giving birth. Everything was ready: the hospital bag packed, the baby’s corner arranged, just a last clean-up before we stepped into parenthood.
Emma had always dreamed of having her own space—no meddling parents, and especially no interference from her mother-in-law. Margaret Andrews had always been… difficult. She adored dictating how we should live, breathe, even wash dishes. Once, Emma snapped and told her bluntly she didn’t need constant advice. Margaret took offence and vanished from our lives. For a while.
When I drove Emma to the hospital, I had no idea what awaited me. The very next day, Mum called to announce she was visiting. Before I could object, she arrived in full force, inspecting the flat with a critical eye—entryway: “not bad”; curtains: “ghastly”; kitchen: “a nightmare to keep clean.” She rifled through the fridge, scoffing at store-bought dumplings and declaring she’d make soup the next day. I tried joking it off, but she ignored me, changed into her tracksuit, and marched through the rest of the flat like a general.
That evening, I offered to drive her home. “I’ll stay the night,” she said. “You shouldn’t be alone—what if Emma comes home tomorrow?” She stayed. One night. Then another. And another.
While I was at work, she rearranged everything—sorted clothes, decided where the changing table should go, made lists of what we still needed. Her “help” was driving me mad, but I didn’t want to upset her. Then came the announcement: she’d stay for a few months. To help with the baby. Because we wouldn’t manage alone.
When Emma was discharged, we all met her at home—her parents, me, and of course, Margaret, beaming. Emma knew instantly something was off. New curtains, shifted furniture, an unfamiliar scent. Her parents left. Margaret didn’t. At Emma’s silent question, I mumbled, “Mum’s staying a bit. To help…”
Exhausted from labour, Emma didn’t argue. But that evening, hell began: “You’re holding him wrong,” “That’s not how you swaddle,” “He’s crying because you don’t know how to rock him.” Emma stayed quiet—until Margaret took the baby from her. That was the last straw.
“Thanks for your help, but you’re free to go,” she said calmly. “This is *my* child. I’ll rock him myself.”
Margaret rolled her eyes, mortally offended. I weakly protested, but one look from Emma shut me up. She was calm. Firm. This was *her* home. *Her* family.
Margaret packed her bags. She never came back. I finally understood—my wife didn’t need instructions, she needed support. And for the first time, Emma truly felt like the woman of the house. No matter how long it took after giving birth—she hadn’t let herself be broken.
**Lesson learned:** A man’s first duty is to stand by his wife, not his mother’s ego. And a woman’s strength isn’t measured by silence, but by the battles she chooses to fight—and win.
