**Diary Entry – 10th March**
Eight years of marriage to Oliver, and I’m still at war with my mother-in-law, Margaret. Nothing I do is ever good enough, while her daughter, Emily, is practically perfect in her eyes. I’ve bitten my tongue for years, but now she’s crossed the line: comparing our children. My patience has run out—I won’t stay silent when it comes to my son.
Oliver and I married straight out of university. We lived in a small town near Manchester, scraping by on pennies, but moving in with Margaret was never an option. She despised me from the start. Oliver tried to reassure me: “Mum’s like this with every girl I’ve dated—she thinks no one’s good enough for me.” It didn’t help. We squeezed into a cramped flat, saving every pound, but when Margaret found out we were renting, she exploded. “Wasting money like that! You could’ve lived with me and saved for a proper house!” For four years, she acted like we’d committed some crime.
Then Emily, Oliver’s sister, got married. She refused to live with her mother-in-law too—and miraculously, Margaret approved. “Good for them! No one should be stuck with a meddling mother-in-law,” she said. Oliver was stunned. “Mum, why is it wrong when we move out but brilliant when Emily does?” Her answer crushed me: “Her mother-in-law would make their lives miserable.” I nearly snapped back, “And you think you’re making mine easy?” It was a slap in the face. To her, I’d always be second best.
Emily herself wasn’t terrible—we got on well enough. But she’d inherited Margaret’s sharp tongue, always lecturing or complaining. I avoided arguments, but Margaret seemed to thrive on stirring trouble. She needed someone to blame, or she couldn’t sleep at night. When I got pregnant—around the same time as Emily—Margaret truly outdid herself. “Emily’s so responsible, starting a family young. You, though—you’re just burdening my son.” I was exhausted enough without her jabs. At family dinners, Emily got the choicest servings—“Eat up, you need your strength”—while I was scolded: “You’ve put on too much weight. What will the doctors say?” (Despite them assuring me everything was fine.) Eventually, I stopped visiting, pleading fatigue.
Our boys were born a week apart. Margaret immediately declared Emily’s son the spitting image of Oliver, while ours, little George, apparently bore no resemblance. I shrugged it off—I was too wrapped up in motherhood. But when she started comparing the boys, my blood boiled. This wasn’t just about me anymore; it was about my child. I won’t let George grow up feeling lesser. Oliver thinks I’m overreacting, but I see how she dotes on Emily’s son while barely glancing at ours.
By George’s fourth birthday, it got worse. “Emily’s boy sits so politely—you’re not raising yours right,” Margaret would snipe. When I enrolled George in nursery, she accused me of palming him off: “Fobbing him onto strangers! Emily stays home to raise hers properly.” These words burned. Even Oliver noticed the unfairness now. I’ve held my tongue, but not for much longer. If he won’t confront her, I will.
I’ve endured Margaret’s comparisons for years, but targeting George is too far. He’s her grandson, yet she treats him like an afterthought. My efforts to keep the peace are crumbling—I’m done being the bigger person. Her poisonous comments are poisoning our lives, and I won’t let her belittle my child. If it comes to it, I’ll fight, even if it tears this family apart. My heart aches, but for George’s sake, I’ll stand my ground. He deserves love—not his grandmother’s disdain.
