**Diary Entry**
Three years ago, my mother-in-law threw me and my child out onto the street. And now she has the nerve to be upset that I refuse to speak to her.
I’m thirty, living in London, raising my son, and trying to build a decent life. But the hurt still lingers, a deep ache that won’t fade. Because three years ago, a woman I once considered family cast us aside without a second thought. And now she can’t understand why I want nothing to do with her. Worse—she acts like *I’m* the one in the wrong.
Thomas and I met in our first year at university. It was real love—no games, no drama, just something solid from the start. Then, unexpectedly, I got pregnant. Despite being on the pill, the test came back positive. There was fear, panic, tears—but abortion was never an option. Thomas didn’t run. He proposed, and we married.
We had nowhere to live. My parents were back in Devon, and I’d been in student halls since seventeen. Thomas, though, had lived alone since sixteen—his mother, Margaret, remarried and moved to York with her new husband, leaving him her two-bedroom flat in Wembley. After the wedding, she *graciously* allowed us to stay there.
At first, it was fine. We studied, took odd jobs, prepared for the baby. I kept the place spotless, cooked, budgeted carefully, watching every penny. But things changed when Margaret started visiting—not for chats, but inspections. She’d rifle through cupboards, check under the bed, wipe a finger along the windowsill to test for dust. Pregnant and exhausted, I’d scramble to clean before she arrived, but nothing was ever good enough.
*”Why is this towel off-centre?” “Breadcrumbs on the mat!” “You’re not a wife, you’re a disaster!”*—her constant refrain.
When our son Oliver was born, it got worse. I barely slept, surviving on adrenaline, but she demanded surgical-level cleanliness. I scrubbed the flat three times a week, yet she always found fault. Then, one day, she snapped:
*”I’m coming next week. If I see so much as a speck of dust, you’re out!”*
I begged Thomas to intervene. He tried. But Margaret wouldn’t budge. When she arrived and found her old boxes on the balcony—untouched, because they weren’t mine—a screaming match erupted.
*”Pack your things and take the baby to Devon! Thomas can choose: stay with you or here.”*
And he chose us. We left for my parents’ tiny cottage. He woke at dawn for lectures, worked late shifts, came home exhausted. I freelanced online, barely making ends meet. We scraped by on beans and toast. Without my parents’ help, we wouldn’t have survived.
Eventually, things improved. We graduated, found jobs, rented a place in London. Oliver grew; we became a proper family. But the sting never faded.
Margaret lives alone now. That flat in Wembley sits empty. She calls Thomas occasionally, asks about Oliver, demands photos. He humours her—holds no grudge. But I do. To me, what she did was unforgivable. She destroyed us at our weakest, left us stranded with a newborn.
*”It’s my flat—I had every right!”* she says.
Maybe legally. But morally? Where was her heart when we stood at King’s Cross with a baby and two suitcases?
I don’t hold grudges out of spite. But forgiveness? That’s a choice. And I won’t make it.
