**Diary Entry**
The guests left, but the resentment lingered.
“Mum, what on earth are you saying?” Emily flung a dirty plate into the sink, the clatter sharp against the quiet kitchen. “Ungrateful? What exactly should I be thanking you for?”
“For everything I’ve given up for you! For putting up with your father for the sake of you kids! For going without so you could have an education, decent clothes!” Eleanor stood in the middle of the kitchen, her face flushed, gripping a tea towel like a lifeline.
“Mum, stop it! The guests just walked out the door, and you’re already on my case! What did I even do wrong? Was the table not set? Did I not bake a cake?”
“That’s just it—you didn’t do anything!” Eleanor spun around, scrubbing a cup with unnecessary force. “You sat there like a stranger while Margaret went on about her grandkids. Didn’t say a word when Louise asked how James was doing. Didn’t even thank them when they complimented you!”
Emily rubbed her temples. Her head throbbed after three hours of polite smiles over tea, listening to her mother’s friends dissect everyone’s lives. The endless questions, comparisons, unsolicited advice. The same old dissatisfaction with everything.
“Mum, I’m thirty-five. A grown woman. I don’t have to nod and grin every second.”
“Grown!” Eleanor scoffed. “A grown woman doesn’t live with her mother at your age, I’ll tell you that much.”
“I’m not forty! And I’m not freeloading! I pay bills, buy groceries, clean, cook—”
“Cook?” Her mother whirled around, anger flashing in her eyes. “What, pasta and sausages? Who made the roast today? The Yorkshire puddings? Who scrubbed this place top to bottom before they arrived?”
Emily sank into a chair, drained. These endless accusations, the need to prove herself, wore her down more than any job.
“Fine, Mum. I’m a terrible daughter. What else do you want me to say?”
“I want a simple ‘thank you’!” Eleanor smacked the table. “Just ‘Thanks, Mum, for letting me stay after the divorce. For helping with James, taking him to the doctor, picking him up from school.’ But no! You act like I owe it to you!”
Emily swallowed hard. Yes, her mother helped with James. Yes, she’d lived in her mum’s house since the divorce, three years now. But wasn’t she trying? Working two jobs, chipping in, keeping up her end?
“Mum, I do thank you. Maybe not in words, but in what I do. I don’t ask you for money—I earn my keep. I help around the house.”
“Help!” Her mother sat across from her, still clutching the towel. “Do you know what Margaret said today? That her Sarah’s met a new man. Successful, good-hearted. Offered to move her and the kids in straight away. And you? Three years alone, just work and home, like a broken record. No life of your own.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Emily snapped. “I can’t order a decent bloke online! If I meet someone, fine. If not, I’ll manage.”
“Manage!” Eleanor stood, pacing. “And what about me? I’m seventy-two. How much longer have I got? You’ll be left alone, with a child to raise.”
“James isn’t a baby—he’s thirteen.”
“Thirteen! The hardest age! He needs a father’s influence. What does he see? A mother who’s always working, a grandmother doing the parenting.”
Emily pushed back from the table. The conversation was veering into familiar territory—her mistakes, her failures, how she should’ve done things differently.
“I’m going to bed. Early start tomorrow.”
“Of course, run away!” Eleanor called after her. “Like always when things get real!”
Emily stopped in the doorway. The words stung, maybe because there was truth in them.
“I’m not running. I’m tired of these talks. Nothing I do is ever enough.”
“Enough?” Eleanor stepped closer. “Then tell me—why, at thirty-five, are you still here? No home of your own, no family? Why is my grandson growing up without a father?”
“Because life happened! Not all of us are born with a silver spoon! Because I had to raise a child, work, not chase after men!”
“Chase!” Her mother gasped. “Is that what you call trying to have a life?”
“Mum, enough!” Emily turned and walked away, her mother’s voice fading behind her.
She shut her bedroom door, leaning against it. Inside, it was quiet. James was at his desk by the window, doing homework. He glanced up.
“Mum, were you arguing with Gran again?”
“Just talking, love.”
He gave her a sceptical look. At thirteen, he understood more than he should.
“I heard shouting. You too.”
Emily ruffled his hair—dark like hers, but with his father’s grey eyes. Tall for his age, thin, too clever for his own good.
“Adults don’t always agree. Doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
“What were you arguing about?”
She sat on the bed. How to explain something she barely understood herself? The guilt, the resentment, the constant feeling of falling short?
“Gran thinks I’m not a good enough daughter. I think I’m doing my best.”
“You’re great,” James said firmly. “You work hard. Help with my homework. Cook well. Don’t yell like some mums.”
“Thanks, love.” Her voice wavered. “Did you like the guests today?”
He grimaced.
“They kept saying how perfect their grandkids are. Then asked why you’re single. Gran got upset.”
“Upset?”
“Yeah. When Auntie Margaret said her daughter remarried well, Gran went red and started defending you. They all looked… doubtful.”
Emily sighed. So it wasn’t just her behaviour. Her mother had felt embarrassed in front of her friends—ashamed of a daughter who hadn’t “sorted her life out.”
“James… do you miss having a dad?”
He thought for a long moment.
“Sometimes. When I need help lifting something, or the lads brag about fishing trips. But I know he’s not coming back. You’re both mum and dad to me.”
Her heart ached. Too wise for thirteen. Too alone.
“What if I met someone? Would you mind?”
“If he’s decent, no. Just don’t let him hurt you or kick me out.”
“No one’s kicking you out,” she said firmly. “You’re everything to me.”
He smiled and turned back to his books. Emily stayed on the bed, replaying the day.
The guests had arrived at two. Eleanor greeted them in her best dress, hair freshly done. The table was laid like a banquet—roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, Victoria sponge. Margaret, Louise, and Barbara—old work friends, all retired, all living through their children’s successes.
At first, it was civil. Health, rising costs, politics. Then Margaret pulled out photos of her grandkids. Louise countered with her granddaughter’s scholarship, her grandson’s swimming trophy. Barbara bragged about her son’s new job, the house he was buying.
Then the eyes turned to Eleanor. What could she say? That her daughter was divorced, living at home? That her grandson did well in school but had no father? That her pride came from James’s good grades?
Eleanor talked about Emily’s job, her responsibility. But pity laced her friends’ replies.
“And her love life?” Louise asked gently.
“Nothing yet,” Eleanor said tightly.
“Good men are scarce these days,” Barbara sighed. “Either drunk or jobless or married.”
“Or maybe she’s too picky?” Margaret suggested. “My Sarah was the same. Then she realised—no one’s perfect. Just find someone kind who’ll love the kids.”
Emily had sat there, cheeks burning. Discussed like a cut-price item. Judged by women who knew nothing of her struggles.
After the divorce, she’d tried dating. Hoped, trusted, got burned. Men who couldn’t accept James. Men who saw her as free childcare. A younger bloke who vanished, saying he “couldn’t adjust to a kid always underfoot.” Another who borrowed £500 and disappeared.
She’d taken a break. Focused on work, James, surviving each day. But today proved—her mother saw her as a failure. Unmarried at thirty-five, a burden, a pity case.
Emily stood by the window. Rain speckled the glass. Autumn coming, then winter. Another year in her mother’s house, another year of disapproval.
Maybe her mum was right. Maybe it was time to leave. Rent a flat, stand on her own feet.
“Mum,” James said quietly. “Should we get our own place?”
She turned. His eyes were serious.
“Why’d you ask?”
“Sometimes I think Gran’s tired**Diary Entry**
The guests left, but the resentment lingered.
“Mum, what on earth are you saying?” Emily flung a dirty plate into the sink, the clatter sharp against the quiet kitchen. “Ungrateful? What exactly should I be thanking you for?”
“For everything I’ve given up for you! For putting up with your father for the sake of you kids! For going without so you could have an education, decent clothes!” Eleanor stood in the middle of the kitchen, her face flushed, gripping a tea towel like a lifeline.
“Mum, stop it! The guests just walked out the door, and you’re already on my case! What did I even do wrong? Was the table not set? Did I not bake a cake?”
“That’s just it—you didn’t do anything!” Eleanor spun around, scrubbing a cup with unnecessary force. “You sat there like a stranger while Margaret went on about her grandkids. Didn’t say a word when Louise asked how James was doing. Didn’t even thank them when they complimented you!”
Emily rubbed her temples. Her head throbbed after three hours of polite smiles over tea, listening to her mother’s friends dissect everyone’s lives. The endless questions, comparisons, unsolicited advice. The same old dissatisfaction with everything.
“Mum, I’m thirty-five. A grown woman. I don’t have to nod and grin every second.”
“Grown!” Eleanor scoffed. “A grown woman doesn’t live with her mother at your age, I’ll tell you that much.”
“I’m not forty! And I’m not freeloading! I pay bills, buy groceries, clean, cook—”
“Cook?” Her mother whirled around, anger flashing in her eyes. “What, pasta and sausages? Who made the roast today? The Yorkshire puddings? Who scrubbed this place top to bottom before they arrived?”
Emily sank into a chair, drained. These endless accusations, the need to prove herself, wore her down more than any job.
“Fine, Mum. I’m a terrible daughter. What else do you want me to say?”
“I want a simple ‘thank you’!” Eleanor smacked the table. “Just ‘Thanks, Mum, for letting me stay after the divorce. For helping with James, taking him to the doctor, picking him up from school.’ But no! You act like I owe it to you!”
Emily swallowed hard. Yes, her mother helped with James. Yes, she’d lived in her mum’s house since the divorce, three years now. But wasn’t she trying? Working two jobs, chipping in, keeping up her end?
“Mum, I do thank you. Maybe not in words, but in what I do. I don’t ask you for money—I earn my keep. I help around the house.”
“Help!” Her mother sat across from her, still clutching the towel. “Do you know what Margaret said today? That her Sarah’s met a new man. Successful, good-hearted. Offered to move her and the kids in straight away. And you? Three years alone, just work and home, like a broken record. No life of your own.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Emily snapped. “I can’t order a decent bloke online! If I meet someone, fine. If not, I’ll manage.”
“Manage!” Eleanor stood, pacing. “And what about me? I’m seventy-two. How much longer have I got? You’ll be left alone, with a child to raise.”
“James isn’t a baby—he’s thirteen.”
“Thirteen! The hardest age! He needs a father’s influence. What does he see? A mother who’s always working, a grandmother doing the parenting.”
Emily pushed back from the table. The conversation was veering into familiar territory—her mistakes, her failures, how she should’ve done things differently.
“I’m going to bed. Early start tomorrow.”
“Of course, run away!” Eleanor called after her. “Like always when things get real!”
Emily stopped in the doorway. The words stung, maybe because there was truth in them.
“I’m not running. I’m tired of these talks. Nothing I do is ever enough.”
“Enough?” Eleanor stepped closer. “Then tell me—why, at thirty-five, are you still here? No home of your own, no family? Why is my grandson growing up without a father?”
“Because life happened! Not all of us are born with a silver spoon! Because I had to raise a child, work, not chase after men!”
“Chase!” Her mother gasped. “Is that what you call trying to have a life?”
“Mum, enough!” Emily turned and walked away, her mother’s voice fading behind her.
She shut her bedroom door, leaning against it. Inside, it was quiet. James was at his desk by the window, doing homework. He glanced up.
“Mum, were you arguing with Gran again?”
“Just talking, love.”
He gave her a sceptical look. At thirteen, he understood more than he should.
“I heard shouting. You too.”
Emily ruffled his hair—dark like hers, but with his father’s grey eyes. Tall for his age, thin, too clever for his own good.
“Adults don’t always agree. Doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
“What were you arguing about?”
She sat on the bed. How to explain something she barely understood herself? The guilt, the resentment, the constant feeling of falling short?
“Gran thinks I’m not a good enough daughter. I think I’m doing my best.”
“You’re great,” James said firmly. “You work hard. Help with my homework. Cook well. Don’t yell like some mums.”
“Thanks, love.” Her voice wavered. “Did you like the guests today?”
He grimaced.
“They kept saying how perfect their grandkids are. Then asked why you’re single. Gran got upset.”
“Upset?”
“Yeah. When Auntie Margaret said her daughter remarried well, Gran went red and started defending you. They all looked… doubtful.”
Emily sighed. So it wasn’t just her behaviour. Her mother had felt embarrassed in front of her friends—ashamed of a daughter who hadn’t “sorted her life out.”
“James… do you miss having a dad?”
He thought for a long moment.
“Sometimes. When I need help lifting something, or the lads brag about fishing trips. But I know he’s not coming back. You’re both mum and dad to me.”
Her heart ached. Too wise for thirteen. Too alone.
“What if I met someone? Would you mind?”
“If he’s decent, no. Just don’t let him hurt you or kick me out.”
“No one’s kicking you out,” she said firmly. “You’re everything to me.”
He smiled and turned back to his books. Emily stayed on the bed, replaying the day.
The guests had arrived at two. Eleanor greeted them in her best dress, hair freshly done. The table was laid like a banquet—roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, Victoria sponge. Margaret, Louise, and Barbara—old work friends, all retired, all living through their children’s successes.
At first, it was civil. Health, rising costs, politics. Then Margaret pulled out photos of her grandkids. Louise countered with her granddaughter’s scholarship, her grandson’s swimming trophy. Barbara bragged about her son’s new job, the house he was buying.
Then the eyes turned to Eleanor. What could she say? That her daughter was divorced, living at home? That her grandson did well in school but had no father? That her pride came from James’s good grades?
Eleanor talked about Emily’s job, her responsibility. But pity laced her friends’ replies.
“And her love life?” Louise asked gently.
“Nothing yet,” Eleanor said tightly.
“Good men are scarce these days,” Barbara sighed. “Either drunk or jobless or married.”
“Or maybe she’s too picky?” Margaret suggested. “My Sarah was the same. Then she realised—no one’s perfect. Just find someone kind who’ll love the kids.”
Emily had sat there, cheeks burning. Discussed like a cut-price item. Judged by women who knew nothing of her struggles.
After the divorce, she’d tried dating. Hoped, trusted, got burned. Men who couldn’t accept James. Men who saw her as free childcare. A younger bloke who vanished, saying he “couldn’t adjust to a kid always underfoot.” Another who borrowed £500 and disappeared.
She’d taken a break. Focused on work, James, surviving each day. But today proved—her mother saw her as a failure. Unmarried at thirty-five, a burden, a pity case.
Emily stood by the window. Rain speckled the glass. Autumn coming, then winter. Another year in her mother’s house, another year of disapproval.
Maybe her mum was right. Maybe it was time to leave. Rent a flat, stand on her own feet.
“Mum,” James said quietly. “Should we get our own place?”
She turned. His eyes were serious.
“Why’d you ask?”
“Sometimes I think Gran’s tiredShe looked at her son’s hopeful face and knew that, no matter how hard it would be, it was time to find a place where they could finally breathe.
