**Diary Entry**
*”You won’t take me in with you?”* Mum asked bitterly. But I already knew the answer…
My name is Victoria. I’m thirty-eight and have been married for fifteen years. My husband Richard and I have a son, a lovely flat in London, and what should be everything I ever wanted. Yet there’s one pain that never fades—my mother. Or rather, her decade-long feud with Richard.
Richard came to our city from a small village up north. Back then, he dreamed of getting into university but didn’t make the cut the first time. Instead, he took a job as a plumber to scrape by, living in a shared flat, never complaining. Eventually, he got in. He kept working—became skilled, in demand. That’s where we met. I was a year older, already ahead in my studies, but there was an instant connection.
After I graduated, we decided to marry. Mum was furious.
*”A plumber? Have you lost your mind? Some village boy with no prospects, no home of his own!”*
I convinced her to let us stay in her flat—just until Richard finished uni. She agreed reluctantly, sour-faced. From the start, she made it clear he wasn’t welcome, no matter how hard he tried. In those first weeks, he fixed everything in that flat—the leaky tap, the hob, even the balcony door that hadn’t shut properly for years. All he got in return was coldness.
*”I won’t be registering you in my house!”* she snapped once. Richard just said, calmly, *”I’m not asking you to.”*
He endured it. Every day. But I saw how it wore him down. And then I got pregnant. And the worst happened.
*”You’re insane! Having a child with that lowlife? I can barely stand him in my home!”*
Richard heard. He packed his things silently. Then he turned to me.
*”You come with me. Or I leave alone. But I won’t stay under the same roof as your mother.”*
I left. We moved into his tiny room in the shared flat. Our son was born. It was hard. But I never regretted it. Richard worked, studied, took odd jobs. Two years later, we bought our first one-bed flat. Then a two-bed. Now we’re in a spacious three-bed. Richard’s an engineer at a major firm, earning well, still taking side jobs because he’s brilliant at what he does.
But since that day, he’s never set foot in my mother’s home. Not for holidays. Not even in passing. He made it clear:
*”I won’t see her. I’ll send money if she needs it. But nothing more. No visits. No contact.”*
For years, Mum didn’t understand. Even now, she still sulks:
*”So you’ll just let him control you? What if I fall ill? What if I can’t take care of myself? Will you abandon me too?”*
I came home with that question and asked Richard quietly, *”What if… she really can’t manage alone?”*
He didn’t hesitate. *”We’ll hire a carer. You can visit. She’ll be taken care of—but not in our lives. My boundary is your doorstep.”*
I thought about it. And he’s right. He doesn’t owe forgiveness to someone who belittled him. Doesn’t owe her repairs after she sneered at him for being a plumber. He grew. He changed. She didn’t.
Last week, she rang again. Shouting about a burst pipe in her bathroom, furious I hadn’t *”asked Richard to fix it.”*
*”Mum,”* I said firmly, *”he transferred you the money. Call a plumber.”*
She hung up. Offended. But I don’t regret it.
Sometimes I think that night—when I followed Richard into that tiny shared flat—was the real turning point. I chose my family. Chose the man who never gave up on us, who built everything from nothing, who refused to let bitterness break him. And I won’t let anyone else break him either.
Let Mum sulk. She had time. She had chances. She just didn’t take them.
