**Diary Entry**
Since Harry and I started dating a few years ago, our relationship has grown slowly but steadily. He’s always been thoughtful and caring, doing everything to make me feel cherished. So when he proposed last month, I happily said yes. We dreamed of our future together—marriage, a home of our own, a life built on love. Everything felt right.
When his parents went on holiday, they offered us their house in London while they were away. Harry was thrilled—said it’d be like a trial run for married life. I agreed, though I admit I felt uneasy. Their home wasn’t mine, his parents and I weren’t close, and the responsibility weighed on me. But love drowns out doubt, doesn’t it?
At first, it was perfect. I took charge of the housekeeping—cooking, laundry, deep cleaning. Harry rarely pitched in, insisting his role was to provide while mine was to keep the home comfortable. I didn’t argue. He earns well, and part of me even liked the old-fashioned arrangement.
Then his parents returned.
I’d scrubbed the house spotless—floors gleaming, windows clear, not a speck of dust anywhere. I’d even baked a Victoria sponge and prepared a roast dinner to welcome them. I wanted them to see how much I cared. But instead of thanks, I got scorn.
Harry awkwardly relayed his mother’s words: “She says the loo wasn’t cleaned properly, the bath was still grimy, and the kitchen looked like a bomb hit it. Oh, and the cake was inedible.”
It felt like a slap. I’d worked so hard, poured every ounce of effort into proving I could be a good wife someday. And this was her response? Nitpicking, insults—humiliation. Any sane person would’ve appreciated the effort, but she’d clearly made up her mind about me before even stepping inside.
After that, Harry grew distant. He stopped talking about wedding plans with the same excitement. No more daydreams about our future. And I started to wonder—could his mother’s disapproval really undo everything?
What more could I possibly do to earn their acceptance? Maybe I rushed into this engagement. If my best wasn’t enough to win her over now, what would marriage be like? Constant criticism? Competing for Harry’s loyalty?
Honestly, I regret playing the homemaker. I should’ve stayed a guest—kept my distance, not tried so hard. Maybe then there’d have been nothing to criticise.
Before all this, Harry mentioned wanting us to live with his parents until we saved enough for our own place. But now? No. I won’t set foot in that house again. Respect isn’t there, and neither will I be.
Now I’m torn: do I keep fighting for Harry, forcing myself into a family that doesn’t want me? Or do I walk away and ask myself—is this really the life I want?
Because love shouldn’t come with conditions. And if they can’t accept me now, they never will. Maybe the problem isn’t me—it’s them. Some doors just aren’t meant to open.
