**Diary Entry**
My husband has been living with his “ailing” mother for six months now, and he has no intention of coming home. He keeps accusing me of refusing to understand him.
Six months—ever since his mother decided she wasn’t well. There were times before when he’d stay with her for a few weeks, but this is beyond ridiculous. And yet, he tells me I’m the one being unreasonable, that I should somehow be helping.
How exactly am I meant to help a mother-in-law who’s clearly faking it just to ruin our marriage? She’s tied him to her apron strings in the simplest way possible—pretending to be frail. I’ve lived with that woman before. No, thank you. I won’t make the same mistake twice.
His mother took it bitterly when she found out James and I were getting married. She never hid her disapproval, though she didn’t openly argue—she wanted her son to think her a saint. Still, she never missed a chance to provoke me or blame me for something.
I didn’t rise to it. Why would I? We didn’t see each other often. I had my own flat, where James and I settled. That didn’t please her either. Hard to control a son who doesn’t live under your roof—or a daughter-in-law who doesn’t care to win your favour.
So, she came up with another plan. Not an original one, mind you. The oldest trick in the book—pretending to be seriously ill, in desperate need of constant care.
James, who’d never dealt with this kind of manipulation before, fell for it completely. Suddenly, he was always at her place. The “poor old woman” had so many ailments, she could’ve been a medical marvel. High blood pressure one minute, low the next—chest pains, backaches, creaky knees, fainting spells. It took me a while to realise she was faking. At first, I thought it was stress. Her darling boy had left her for another woman—no wonder her body was reacting.
The first time she “took a turn,” James stayed with her for a week. I even packed a bag and went to help, thinking it was serious. That first day, she was convincing. But by day two, I noticed something odd—her symptoms vanished the moment James stepped out. She’d be up, humming, perfectly fine. The second he walked back in? Collapsed on the sofa, moaning.
I told James. He didn’t believe me. No surprise—she’s a brilliant actress. But I wasn’t playing along. I packed my things and went home.
A few days later, James returned, saying she’d improved. Of course she had—she’d won. The moment I left, she must’ve been overjoyed. But a few weeks later? The act started again.
Every time she “fell ill,” James would move in indefinitely. Strangely, she’d only recover when I suggested calling a doctor. Healthy people don’t get that sick that often—there’s usually a reason. The second she thought a doctor might actually show up, she’d miraculously bounce back. And once James was sure his beloved mother was safe, he’d finally come home.
It’s been six months now. At first, there was a real reason—she’d had knee surgery after a fall years ago. The doctor ordered bed rest for a week, and of course James stayed. I didn’t blame him—she needed help.
But a week passed. Then a month. Then six. Suddenly, she “still wasn’t well.” She could walk, but not without spinning tales for James—how she’d stumbled, how she’d barely managed to get up while he was at work. Six months, and he still believes her. No doctor’s found anything wrong, and they all say she’s fine—she walks unaided, just can’t run. But what do they know?
I gave him an ultimatum: come home for good, or I’ll file for divorce. Now *I’m* the villain. He says I don’t love him, that I won’t understand. He’s not off with some mistress—he’s with his mother, who *needs* him.
My friends keep asking why I’m still here. It’s obvious, isn’t it? We should divorce. And maybe they’re right. I held on, thinking common sense would win out. But I see now—some battles aren’t worth fighting.
*Lesson: Love shouldn’t mean playing second fiddle to a lifetime of manipulation.*
