**Diary Entry**
“You have a month to leave my house!” declared my mother-in-law.
Life with Oliver had been perfect—two years together, then the decision to marry. I’d always gotten along with his mother, Margaret. She seemed kind and wise, and I valued her advice, respecting her opinions deeply. I thought myself incredibly lucky; she never interfered, never criticised, and her warmth had been such a comfort.
Margaret paid for the entire wedding. My own parents, struggling financially, could only manage small contributions. The day was wonderful, and I was certain a happy married life lay ahead. But just after the ceremony, while we were still riding the high of celebration, she sat us down for a serious talk. Her words struck like a bolt from the blue.
“Children, I’ve done my duty,” she began, her voice cool and resolute. “I raised Oliver, gave him an education, helped him marry. Now you’re a family, and though I don’t want you to resent me, you have a month to move out. It’s time you stood on your own feet. Yes, it’ll be hard at first, but you’ll learn to budget and solve problems yourselves. As for me… I’ve earned the right to live for myself at last.”
She paused, then added as though driving nails into our hearts:
“And don’t rely on me when grandchildren come along. I gave everything to my son—I’ve nothing left for raising children. You’ll always be welcome here, but I’ll be a grandmother, not a babysitter. Don’t judge me too harshly. You’ll understand when you’re my age.”
I stood there, thunderstruck. A storm of emotions raged inside me—anger, hurt, confusion. How could she do this? Margaret would enjoy her spacious three-bedroom house in central Manchester while Oliver and I scraped by in a rented flat, counting every penny. And the worst part? Oliver owns a share of that house! Why should *we* leave? As for grandchildren… Don’t most grandmothers dream of spoiling their grandkids? But ours, it seemed, was the exception.
I expected Oliver to argue, to defend us—but he just… agreed. Without protest, he started scanning rental listings and picking up extra shifts to afford our new place. I was furious. My parents couldn’t help, but why would Margaret, who’d seemed so caring, turn out so cold and selfish?
I replayed her words daily, each time feeling more wounded. How could she cut us off so easily? Were all her kind smiles and warmth before the wedding just an act? I felt betrayed, and the thought of starting from scratch in a strangers’ home filled me with despair. Oliver, though, was determined. He called it our chance to prove we could manage—that we were a real family. But how could I think of the future when everything I’d relied on was crumbling?
