**Diary Entry**
Every family has its struggles. Some feud bitterly over inheritances, others battle addiction or forgive infidelities, and some simply give up in despair. My husband and I, though, seemed to have no major troubles—except for one glaring issue: my mother-in-law. Margaret Whitmore was the one who poisoned our otherwise peaceful life.
For years, I tried to find common ground with her, to tolerate her antics, to turn a blind eye. But the harder I tried, the more an invisible wall grew between us. I understand how deep the bond between a mother and son can be. But when a thirty-seven-year-old man remains a mummy’s boy, it’s nothing short of tragic. My husband and his mother existed in their own little world—whispering behind my back, making secret arrangements, only letting me in on their plans when there was no way out.
Then came the final straw.
Our son, Oliver, usually spent summers at my parents’ countryside cottage. My mother, a doctor, could rarely take leave—even during the worst of the pandemic, she kept working. My father, however, wasn’t well enough to manage Oliver alone.
I work for a major firm, so taking extended leave was out of the question. This year, we decided to ask my mother-in-law for help. A month in advance, I carefully arranged everything with Margaret. She agreed eagerly, assuring me she’d look after Oliver. I truly believed I could rely on her.
Then, a week before our holiday, came the call.
“Emma,” she announced cheerfully, “I’ve been given a holiday package! I’m off to Spain! So you’ll have to sort Oliver out yourself.”
I was so stunned, it took me a moment to process her words. She’d betrayed us. Just like that.
Later, I found out there was no “holiday package.” She’d planned it all herself—booked the flights, reserved the hotel, all while knowing full well she’d promised to help with Oliver.
Worse still, right before leaving, Margaret asked my husband to water her greenhouse and tend to her garden while she was away.
Naturally, with his long work hours, he passed the task to me. But I’d had enough. I said flatly:
“I won’t lift a finger. Your mother abandoned us when we needed her most. If her holiday matters more, then let her tomatoes rot along with her selfishness. That’s her problem, not mine.”
Of course, when she learned of my refusal, all hell broke loose. Accusations, blame, complaints—all hurled at me. But the ship had sailed. She left anyway, leaving us to handle Oliver and her neglected garden.
Now I’m scrambling across town, desperate to find a summer camp or activity group for Oliver. He deserves a proper holiday, not endless days cooped up indoors.
Once again, I’ve learned: in hard times, you can only rely on yourself—and your own conscience. Margaret chose her holiday. I chose my son.
And I don’t regret it for a second.
