**Diary Entry**
The village never let me forget it—how I lived in a proper house while my daughter, Emily, squeezed into a tiny cottage with her children. She made sure everyone knew, too. “I haul water from the well,” she’d complain to anyone who’d listen, “while she’s got proper plumbing. I scrape together pennies for firewood, and she’s got gas heating.” I held my head high, ignoring the whispers. No point explaining myself to the lot of them.
Years ago, things were different. A proper home, a husband, and my sweet Emily. Three bedrooms, a comfortable life. I stayed home, raising her—best schools, hobbies, everything smooth as can be. Then, when Emily turned fifteen, my husband fell ill. I fought for him, sold everything but the house, but three years later, he was gone.
Money vanished fast. Emily, used to better, rebelled. I took a job at the shop—cashier, cleaner, whatever paid. But it was next to nothing. She finished school but refused college. “No money for university, and I won’t go to trade school—don’t even ask.” Yet she never missed a night out. Clever, that one. Sweet as pie when she wanted something, but bitter the rest. “Why’d you have me if you can’t help?” she’d snap.
Then came Edward. At first, I thought she’d come to her senses. Well-dressed, respectable—nothing off the discount rack. Knew how to put her in her place, too. Bought fancy groceries, called me “Mum” from day one. A real charmer.
For six months, life was easy. I came home to a clean house, dinner ready. The young ones were always out, but I didn’t pry. Then Emily started crying, Edward grew sharp. I should’ve stepped in. One evening, they sat me down. “Mum, we want our own place,” Emily said. “We need the house.” I was baffled. “I’m not in your way, and I’ve got no money to help.” She cut me off. “Not that. Sell it. Split the money fair.”
I hesitated, but she wore me down—pleading, then threatening to sell her share. I gave in. They went to finalise the sale and vanished with every penny. Left me with nothing—a middle-aged woman with no home.
Renting on shop wages was impossible, so I took a live-in job. A carer for Margaret, an elderly woman whose son had money but couldn’t move her. Margaret was strict, everything just so. I learned—baking bread, starching linens—adapting.
We lasted two years. Not friends, not enemies. Then one morning, she smiled; by noon, she was gone. Her son handled everything and offered me the house—small payment, instalments. So I became a homeowner again.
I’d barely settled when Emily showed up—two toddlers in tow. “Nice place,” she said, like it was nothing. “Where’s my room?” I didn’t mince words. “Your room was in the house you sold. Where’s my share? And why find me now? Let me guess—Edward’s gone?” She sniffed. “He was a gambler. Tricked me like he tricked you. Two failed marriages after, and when the last one threw me out, I thought—Mum won’t turn me away.”
I shut that down fast. “You’re grown. Figure it out yourself. Tonight, you stay. Tomorrow, you leave.”
She lasted two weeks, then used some voucher to buy a run-down cottage. Moved in, kept the children from me. Close by, yet miles apart.
We only reconciled when disaster struck. Her latest man burned the place down—luckily, she and the kids were away. When they turned up here, I let them in. What else could I do? Blood’s blood. Time to let old grudges go. The rest? Well, that’s in God’s hands.
