**Diary Entry**
I just got off the phone with my son, and my hands are shaking so hard I can barely hold my cup of tea. He sounded close to tears, asking if he could come stay with us in Manchester for a bit to get some work done. His wife, Emily, has turned their home into a bloody party house—friends over every night, music blaring, no peace for him to focus on his projects. I was so furious I could barely breathe.
“Did you let him come?” my neighbour asks, topping up my tea.
“Of course I did!” My voice trembles with frustration. I’ve told him a hundred times to sort things out with his wife, but it’s like talking to a brick wall. When he arrived, he looked wrecked—dark circles under his eyes, starving. He went straight to his laptop and didn’t move until midnight. Said his deadlines were closing in.
“Why can’t he work at home? Emily’s causing trouble?”
“That place is busier than Piccadilly Circus!” I sigh. One day it’s her sister visiting, the next it’s a crowd of her mates. Chatter, laughter, music shaking the walls. How’s he supposed to concentrate?
My son, James, is a structural engineer. He and Emily have been married six years. At first, I thought she was perfect—quiet, polite, with a degree in finance. When little Oliver came along, I was over the moon. “What a homemaker! Spotless house, well-cared-for child, James never went hungry,” I remember wistfully.
James climbed the career ladder while Emily was on maternity leave. In three years, he made senior engineer, but the promotion came with crushing responsibility. Then things changed. “He used to be so lively,” I tell my neighbour, fighting back tears. “I thought it was work stress, but no—it’s home.”
Once, I dropped by their flat in central Manchester unannounced. It was chaos—music blasting, Emily’s friends laughing in the kitchen. James was holed up in the bedroom with his laptop, and Oliver was nowhere in sight. Turns out, Emily shipped him off to her parents in the suburbs. These parties had become routine. Every weekend—friends, her sister, dancing till midnight. “Birthday!” one week, “Just because!” the next. James couldn’t focus. “I walk in, and the place is a wreck. How am I supposed to work?” he’d complain.
I tried talking to Emily. She snapped, “I’m done playing the perfect little wife! Five years without a break—cooking, cleaning, looking after the baby. Did anyone thank me? No! Now I’m having fun with my friends, and there’s not a single bloke here. Oliver’s happy at his grandparents’. If James has a problem, he can say it to my face!”
James noticed the change once Emily went back to work. Weekdays, she’s the model wife—weekends, she’s a different person. He’d love to put his foot down, but he’s terrified. “She’ll explode, and it’ll get worse.” I’m horrified. “He’s too soft to stand up to her,” I mutter. “What if she spirals? What happens to their family then?”
My friends ask, “Can’t her mother talk some sense into her?” I just shake my head. “Her mum thinks it’s fine. Says Emily’s young, exhausted, let her have fun while she can. Oliver’s with her, so it’s no bother. And since James isn’t saying anything, she assumes he’s fine with it.”
I don’t know what to do. I see my son crumbling, their marriage fraying. James can’t work at home, and Emily shows no signs of slowing down. “This can’t go on!” I fume. “If this continues, they’ll divorce, and Oliver will grow up without his dad!”
What would you do in my place? How do I help my son without tearing his family apart? Have you dealt with anything like this? I’m desperate for advice—this is a right mess.
