**Diary Entry – 15th March**
My name is Margaret Elizabeth, and at sixty-two, I’ve spent too many years aching over this simple truth: I’ve become a stranger in my own son’s life. All because of his wife, Jessica—my daughter-in-law—who’s bent on erasing me from their family. The cruelest part? I’ve done nothing to deserve it. Not a harsh word, not a sideways glance. Only kindness, warmth, and a desperate wish to be close. Yet all I get in return is silence. A wall built between us.
When my son Thomas first told me he’d proposed, I was desperate to meet his bride. I’d always imagined welcoming her like my own—with open arms, tea on the table, and all the love I could spare. But Thomas hesitated, shifting awkwardly before saying, *”Mum, Jess isn’t ready yet. She’s shy.”*
I understood. Or pretended to. Perhaps she was nervous, I reasoned. But when the wedding plans began, patience wore thin. I finally pressed him: *”Will I really only meet her at the ceremony? As if I’m some distant aunt?”* Reluctantly, he brought her round. I fussed over the roast, laid out the good china, even bought roses for the table. And Jessica? Not a word. No smile, no eye contact, barely a mumbled *thanks*. Like I’d dragged her there against her will. I blamed nerves then, but my heart knew better.
After the wedding, they moved into their own flat—mortgage, two bedrooms, all very proper. I kept my distance, didn’t intrude. Let them settle. Then, eighteen months later, little Oliver arrived. My darling grandson.
I thought motherhood might soften her. Surely no woman stays that cold after holding her own child? Instead, it got worse. Now, when I ring to visit, Jessica’s reply is sharp: *”We won’t be in. Going away.”* Later, Thomas admits they were home all along. The message couldn’t be clearer: I’m not wanted.
Still, I tried. Bought Oliver books, knitted jumpers, brought rounds of biscuits for tea. Their mortgage is tight, Jessica’s on leave—surely she’d see I only meant to help? But no. Even when I visit, she barely nods hello before vanishing upstairs, door clicking shut behind her.
So there we sit—Thomas, Oliver, and me—sipping tea, laughing over bedtime stories. And Jessica? As if we’re ghosts. How can she? I’ve only ever been kind. Never criticised, never meddled. Only praised, offered support. So why am I treated like some intruder?
Maybe she fears I’ll interfere. But I wouldn’t. I just wanted to share their joys, lend a hand when things turned hard. Is that so terrible?
I don’t know what to do now. Every visit aches, but staying away breaks my heart worse. I love my son. I love his family. But love, it seems, isn’t always welcome.
Yet I won’t give up. One day, perhaps, Jessica will open that door. Step into the kitchen, pull out a chair, and say, *”Come in, Mum. We’re glad you’re here.”* God, let that day come soon.
**Lesson learned:** Kindness can’t always melt a frozen heart—but it’s all I have left to give.
