**Diary Entry – June 12th**
*”What on earth are you saying, Mum?!”* Emily’s voice cracked as she gripped the back of the chair. *”What do you mean, ‘not your daughter’? I’m your flesh and blood!”*
*”Don’t raise your voice at me!”* Margaret didn’t even glance up from her newspaper, waving a dismissive hand. *”I said what I said. And who are you to tell me what to do?”*
*”Mum, what’s got into you?”* Jack, Emily’s husband, rushed into the room. *”The neighbors are banging on the wall!”*
*”Let them bang,”* the old woman muttered. *”It’s my house. I’ll say what I like.”*
Emily sank onto the sofa, legs trembling. It had started over something trivial—she’d asked her mother not to toss the leftover stew, planning to warm it up tomorrow. But the words that followed left her gutted.
*”Mum, is your blood pressure up?”* Emily ventured carefully. *”Did you take your pills?”*
*”What’s blood pressure got to do with it?”* Margaret finally looked up, her gaze icy. *”I meant every word. You’re no daughter of mine. Never have been.”*
Jack exchanged a glance with Emily. In thirty years of knowing his mother-in-law, he’d seen her in every mood—but never like this.
*”Margaret, maybe we should call a doctor,”* he offered. *”You’re not yourself today.”*
*”I’m perfectly clear-headed!”* she snapped. *”I’m sick of pretending. Sick of playing happy families!”*
Emily’s breath caught. A lump rose in her throat, one thought circling her mind: *Had Mum always felt this way? Had she spent a lifetime hiding that she didn’t love her?*
*”Mum, please,”* Emily whispered, voice shaking. *”I’ve always been here. I nursed you when you were ill. Helped with money, brought groceries…”*
*”Exactly!”* Margaret stood abruptly, the newspaper slipping to the floor. *”Out of pity! You thought you owed me! What use is that to me?”*
*”Pity?”* Emily’s hands clenched. *”Mum, I love you!”*
*”Liar!”* Margaret turned to the window, staring into the garden. *”No one loves me. Not even you.”*
Jack squeezed Emily’s hand. She was pale as chalk, shaking.
*”Let’s go to the kitchen,”* he whispered. *”Give her time to calm down.”*
*”No.”* Emily stood. *”Mum, explain this to me. Why are you saying these things?”*
Margaret turned slowly, a bitter smirk twisting her lips. *”What’s to explain? You think I don’t hear how you talk about me? ‘Old, sick, a burden’?”*
*”I’ve never said that!”*
*”Oh, spare me!”* Margaret scoffed. *”I heard you and Jack whispering in the kitchen. Thought I wouldn’t notice? My hearing’s sharp, you know.”*
Jack frowned, wracking his brain. What could they have said to wound her so deeply?
*”What did we say?”* he pressed.
*”You don’t remember?”* She narrowed her eyes. *”Discussing putting me in a care home. How I’m in your way.”*
Emily gasped. They *had* talked about it—not to abandon her, but out of worry. Margaret had begun forgetting the stove on, mistaking neighbours she’d known for years.
*”Mum, we’d never send you away,”* Emily said urgently. *”We were just frightened—”*
*”Don’t spin me tales!”* Margaret cut in. *”I’m done with your false concern!”*
*”Margaret, you know we love you,”* Jack interjected. *”Emily barely slept when you were ill.”*
*”Duty!”* she spat. *”Because that’s what ‘good daughters’ do! But real love? I’ve seen none of it.”*
Tears brimmed in Emily’s eyes. How could she say that? She’d spent her life trying to be the perfect daughter—through hardships, through raising her own children, she’d *always* made time for her mother.
*”Mum, why?”* Her voice broke. *”What have I ever done to hurt you?”*
*”What have you done *for* me?”* Margaret slumped back into her armchair. *”You live your life, drop by when it suits you, ask after my health like it’s a chore. Think that’s enough?”*
*”But I call daily! I shop, I arrange doctor’s visits—”*
*”Tick-box kindness!”* Margaret shook her head. *”Where’s your *heart* in it? When did you last visit just to talk? Share a cuppa, speak your mind?”*
Emily froze. It was true—lately, every visit had been errands: prescriptions, bills, repairs.
*”Mum, I’ve got my family, my job—”*
*”Exactly!”* Margaret snapped. *”You have *everything*. And I have *no one*. Sat here alone, waiting for my daughter to *grace* me with a visit!”*
*”Then move in with us! We’ve asked a dozen times!”*
*”To be a *burden*? To see my grandkids roll their eyes, hear my son-in-law sigh?”*
Jack opened his mouth, but Margaret barreled on:
*”You think I don’t notice? You rush in, rush out—like I’m some *chore*!”*
Emily buried her face in her hands. The worst part? Margaret wasn’t entirely wrong.
*”I tried to help,”* she whispered.
*”Help?”* Margaret snorted. *”But talk to me? Ask how I *am*? Share your *life*?”*
*”I thought you weren’t interested…”*
*”Not *interested*?”* Margaret’s voice cracked. *”I *feel* every shift in you! See when you’re sad, when you’re glad—but you shut me out!”*
*”I didn’t want to burden you.”*
*”What’s a mother *for*?”* Margaret moved beside her. *”Just feeding and medicating me?”*
Silence hung heavy. Jack lingered by the window, an outsider to this raw reckoning.
*”Know what hurts most?”* Margaret said softly. *”You don’t *see* me. To you, I’m just an old woman to ‘manage’.”*
*”That’s not—”*
*”Isn’t it? When did you last ask what I *think*? What I *want’?”*
Emily floundered. Only logistics came to mind.
*”…What *do* you want, Mum?”*
Margaret gave a wry smile. *”Late to ask now.”*
*”Better late than never.”*
Margaret stared out the window. *”I want to be loved—not pitied. Needed. I want my daughter to visit *because she misses me*.”*
*”I *do* miss you! I just… don’t know how to show it.”*
*”Or you don’t *want* to?”*
*”I don’t *know how*,”* Emily admitted. *”You raised me with ‘Stop crying’, ‘Don’t fuss’, ‘Get on with it’. When I tried to hug you, you’d say, ‘Not now, I’m busy’.”*
Margaret flinched. *”I was tired. Working double shifts—”*
*”I get that. But I grew up thinking feelings were a weakness. I assumed you felt the same.”*
*”I always needed them,”* Margaret murmured. *”I just didn’t know how to say it.”*
They sat, hands clasped. Jack quietly took a seat opposite.
*”So we’re both daft,”* Emily said tearfully.
*”Reckon so.”*
*”Mum… when you said I wasn’t yours. Did you mean it?”*
Margaret turned away. *”Just lashing out.”*
*”Tell me the truth.”*
A long pause. Then: *”Sometimes I look at you… and you feel like a stranger. Like there’s a wall between us.”*
*”We built that wall,”* Emily said. *”Me with my silence, you with your hurt.”*
*”Suppose so.”*
*”Can we tear it down?”*
Margaret met her eyes. *”Dunno. But we can try.”*
Emily squeezed her hand. *”Then let’s try. No pretence. Just honesty.”*
*”Just honesty,”* Margaret agreed.
*”Mum… I panic every time I visit. Scared you’ll be*”Mum… I panic every time I visit. Scared you’ll be worse, scared I’ll say the wrong thing—but most of all, scared I’ll lose you before you *know* how much I love you.”*
