**Diary Entry**
Mum wants to stay with us while my mother-in-law is away, but that woman forbids letting “outsiders” into her home.
I’m 25, and my name is Lydia Harper. My husband, Thomas Whitmore, and I live in his mother’s flat in a quiet town near Brighton. This isn’t temporary—we’ll be here at least until I finish maternity leave. Three months ago, I gave birth to our daughter, Daisy, and now our lives revolve around her. But instead of feeling at home, I’m trapped in a place where my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, makes the rules—and my own mum isn’t even allowed to visit.
The flat is spacious: three bedrooms, a tidy layout, a balcony, and a decent kitchen. Four people could live here comfortably. Thomas owns a share of the property, but we keep to one room to avoid intruding. I breastfeed Daisy, we co-sleep, and that’s fine by everyone. But living here has become a battle. Margaret isn’t fussed about cleanliness, so the chores fall to me. Even before Daisy was born, I scrubbed years of dust away. Now, with a baby, I can’t let things slide. Daily mopping, laundry, ironing—it’s all on me. I cook, too, since Margaret won’t lift a finger in the kitchen. Thank God Daisy’s a calm baby—she sleeps or stays in her cot while I rush about.
Margaret does nothing. She used to wash dishes—now she leaves them on the table and walks off. I bite my tongue to avoid a row, but it gnaws at me. Is it so hard to rinse a bowl after soup? It’s small, but it’s the last straw. I clean, cook, tidy; she watches telly or gossips on the phone. I swallow my frustration, but each day wears me down.
Last week, Margaret announced she’s visiting family in York this autumn—her niece is getting married. I was thrilled: at last, it’d be just Thomas, Daisy, and me, like a proper family! That same day, my mum, Evelyn Harper, called. She lives up in Manchester and hasn’t met Daisy yet. She said she misses us and wants to visit. Over the moon, I pictured her cuddling Daisy, finally feeling like I had a piece of home. I couldn’t wait to tell Thomas.
The joy shattered when I mentioned Mum’s visit. Margaret’s face darkened. “I won’t have strangers in my house while I’m gone!” she snapped. *Strangers?* That’s my *mother*, Daisy’s *grandmother*! I was stunned. Mum’s not some outsider—they met at our wedding. Back then, we rented a place, so Mum stayed with us because Margaret had distant relatives over. That was three years ago, but does that make Mum irrelevant?
Margaret dug in. She accused me of plotting—as if Mum and I *waited* for her to leave so we could “take over.” She’d already booked her train tickets but now insisted this was no coincidence. “Two years your mother’s stayed away, and now she turns up? Not likely!” she shouted. I tried explaining Mum just wants to see Daisy, but Margaret wouldn’t budge. She even threatened to cancel her trip to “guard” the flat. As if it’s some Buckingham Palace, not a tired three-bed with peeling wallpaper!
I broke down and told Mum. She was hurt but said she’d postpone her trip till summer to avoid trouble. Sure enough, Margaret cancelled her tickets. Now she patrols the flat like a prison warden, watching my every move as if I’d nick the silver. I feel humiliated. My mum—who *longs* to hold Daisy—can’t come because of Margaret’s paranoia. And me? I’m on the lease, legally living here, yet I can’t invite my own family.
It breaks my heart. I do *everything* for this place—clean, cook, keep it warm—and in return? Suspicion. Rules. Thomas stays out of it, but I see him cringe, too. Who’s right here? Margaret, guarding her flat like a fortress? Or me, just wanting my mum to meet her granddaughter? My mother isn’t a stranger—she’s *family*. But to Margaret, I’m a threat, and my hopes are some scheme. I’m exhausted, living under her thumb, feeling like a guest in what should be my home. This cuts like a knife, and I don’t know how to fix it without tearing us apart.
**Lesson learned:** Home isn’t just a roof—it’s where you’re treated like you belong. If the key turns only one way, you’ll always be locked out.
