**Diary Entry – 12th June**
James and I have been dreaming of our own place for ages. We’ve finally secured a mortgage and even borrowed a bit from his mother, Margaret. She isn’t wicked, but her constant meddling drives me up the wall. Ever since her husband passed, she’s made it her mission to smother everyone with her attention, and it’s suffocating. She has a spacious flat in central Manchester, but I’ve made up my mind—I’d rather have a cramped place of our own than live under her shadow.
We considered a three-bedroom flat in a new development. The smallest room would’ve been perfect for the walk-in wardrobe I’ve always wanted. But Margaret threw a fit. “What a waste!” she snapped, glaring at me. “Where will guests sleep if family visits?” I knew exactly what she meant—she was thinking of herself. Lately, she’s been lingering at ours well past bedtime, as if dreading her empty flat. Her words were a warning: take the third bedroom, and she’d never leave.
I’m not blind. Margaret’s lonely, and her concern has turned into control. She rings three times a day to “check in,” brings unsolicited advice, and even tries to dictate how we furnish the place. I refuse to share our home with her! James and I are buying this flat to build *our* life, not cater to her whims, no matter how “sweet” she seems.
I laid down the law—no three-bed flats. “I want your mum over for Christmas and birthdays, that’s it,” I told James. “If she wants a guest room, she can have one at hers.” He argued she just wants to be closer, that she’s growing older and struggles alone. But I won’t budge. I won’t sacrifice our peace for her stifling “care.” Better to lose the wardrobe than turn our home into her annexe.
If guests visit, they can sleep on an airbed. And if Margaret hints at staying? I’ll invent a dozen reasons to send her home. This is *our* house, *our* life, and I won’t let anyone—not even her—steal that from us.
