**Diary Entry – October 12th**
Bloody hell, what a day. The missus finally put her foot down, and not a moment too soon.
“No, Edward! Just—no!” Emily slammed her fist on the kitchen table, sending the teacups rattling. “I’ve had enough! I can’t do this anymore!”
My father looked up from his newspaper, bewildered. “Emily, love, what’s got into you?”
“What’s got into me? I’m not your bloody maid!” She stood there, hands on hips, furious. “Your mum orders me about all day like I’m here to serve her, and you just sit there!”
Right on cue, Margaret—my mother—walked in, scowling. “What’s all this shouting? Emily, must you make such a scene?”
Emily pointed straight at her. “There! That’s exactly what I mean! ‘Emily, fetch the groceries.’ ‘Emily, make the roast.’ ‘Emily, scrub the floors.’ Am I your servant?”
Margaret pursed her lips and sat down. “Well, someone has to do it. I’m not as young as I used to be, Edward’s at work all hours—”
“I work too!” Emily cut her off. “Standing at the shop till all day, legs aching, and I come home to more chores? It’s not fair!”
I rubbed the back of my neck, glancing between them. “Mum, maybe she’s right. Emily’s knackered by the end of the day—”
“Oh, so it’s *me* who’s the problem now?” Margaret huffed. “My own son turning against me for some—”
“*Some*?” Emily’s voice cracked. “I’m your son’s *wife*, in case you’ve forgotten! The mother of your future grandchildren, God willing! And you call me *some* girl?”
Margaret turned away, silent. I stood and reached for Emily’s hand. “Love, don’t take it like that. Mum’s just getting on—”
“And I’m not? Listen, Ed—something changes, or I’m leaving.”
The room went dead quiet. Margaret finally turned back. “And where exactly would you go? Back to your parents? They’d welcome you with open arms, would they?”
Emily went pale. Her parents—especially her father—had never approved of our marriage.
“I’ll figure it out,” she muttered.
“Emily, don’t be daft,” I said, gripping her hand. “We’re family. We’ll sort it.”
“Exactly! So here are *my* terms.”
Margaret scoffed. “Terms? In *my* house?”
“*Our* house!” Emily snapped. “Tell her, Ed. We live here too!”
I hesitated. Truth was, the house was in Mum’s name, inherited from her parents. We’d moved in after the wedding—no other choice.
“Mum, technically—”
“No *technically*!” Margaret cut in. “My house, my rules!”
“Fine.” Emily grabbed a notepad. “First—I cook dinner every other night. Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays are yours or Ed’s.”
“Outrageous!”
“Because I’m *not* your cook!” She scribbled it down. “Second—we take turns cleaning. One week me, one week you.”
“You’ve gone mad!”
“Third—no one enters our room without knocking. And no touching my things.”
That stung. Mum had a habit of “tidying” our room—rearranging Emily’s clothes, even reading her letters.
“And if I need to vacuum?” Margaret snipped.
“Ask first!” Emily wrote it down. “Fourth—once a week, Ed and I go out. Just us.”
“Now you’re stealing my son!”
“I’m *marrying* him! Couples do things together!”
I cleared my throat. “Mum, it’s not unreasonable—”
“Oh, so it’s *two* against one now!”
Emily studied her then. Margaret’s voice had lost its edge—she just sounded hurt.
“Margaret… I don’t hate you. I just want peace.”
“Peace…” Mum sank into a chair. “How can I have peace if my son drifts away?”
Emily set the pen down. “No one’s drifting. But I need space here too. I’m not an outsider.”
Margaret muttered, “Not an outsider, but not blood either. Here today, gone tomorrow…”
I stood. “Mum, enough. Emily’s my *wife*. That makes her family.”
“Family…” She sighed. “Fine. But daughters listen to their mothers.”
“Daughters, not servants,” Emily said.
Silence. I paced. Emily flipped her notepad. Margaret stared out the window at Mrs. Higgins hanging laundry next door.
“Susan’s boy got married last year,” Mum said abruptly. “Nice girl. Quiet. Respectful.”
“And I’m not?”
“Dunno. You’ve got *conditions*…”
“Not disrespect. Just clarity.”
Margaret turned. “So I just sit here like a potted plant?”
Emily almost smiled. “Of course not! You’ve got your garden, your knitting—I’m not talking about that. I just can’t do *everything*.”
I stopped pacing. “She’s right, Mum. We’ll help. Me included.”
“You?” Mum scoffed. “You’ve never boiled an egg!”
“I’ll learn!”
Emily’s eyes softened. “You mean it?”
“Course! How hard can peeling potatoes be?”
Margaret snorted—but there was no bite in it. “You’ll be hopeless.”
“Worth a try,” Emily said.
Mum thought a moment. “And what do I get out of this?”
Emily blinked. “What?”
“Compromise goes both ways.”
“…What do you want?”
“Call me Maggie. Not ‘Margaret.’”
“Alright… Maggie.”
“And have tea with me sometimes. Edward’s always glued to the telly. Gets lonely.”
Emily paused. Maybe Mum wasn’t so wicked—just lonely.
“Deal. But not every night. Some days I’m shattered.”
“Fair enough.”
I slumped into a chair. “Thank God. Thought we were headed for divorce court.”
“We *were* at war,” Emily said.
“Truce, then,” Mum murmured. “Maggie… takes getting used to.”
“You’re not *that* old.”
“Not old, just tired. Knees ache, blood pressure’s dodgy…”
Emily studied her properly then. Mum *did* look worn. Maybe she hadn’t meant to dump everything on Emily—maybe she just couldn’t manage.
“Maggie… have you seen a doctor?”
“Oh, pills and all. Useless.”
“What if we hired a cleaner? Just once a week?”
I winced. “Where’d we get the money?”
“I’ll pick up extra shifts.”
“I’ll take weekend jobs,” I added. “Tom’s mate needs help renovating.”
Mum gaped. “You’d do that? For *me*?”
“For all of us,” Emily said. “A cleaner means I’m less frazzled, and you can rest.”
“Not a bad idea,” I admitted. “Should’ve thought of it sooner.”
“Couldn’t afford it before,” Mum sighed. “But now you’re both working…”
Emily stood, heading for the stove. “Right. Let’s eat. Tomorrow’s a fresh start.”
“Fresh start…” Mum mused. “Might be for the best.”
Dinner was calm, even pleasant. We talked about work, the neighbors, weekend plans. Emily mentioned a new girl at the shop; I grumbled about the factory’s new rules. Mum complained about next door’s tabby digging up her petunias.
“Maggie,” Emily said suddenly, “why not get a cat of your own? Company.”
“A cat?” Mum blinked. “Who’d look after it?”
“You would. It’d be *yours*.”
“Mine…” She smiled faintly. “Haven’t had anything just mine in years.”
“You’ve got us now,” Emily said. “Family.”
“Family…” Mum’s eyes softened. “Suppose I do.”
Later, in our room, Emily sat deep in thought. She’d set hard terms—but fair. Time would tell if they stuck. At least I’d backed her. And Mum… maybe she wasn’t so bad. Just set in her ways. Lonely.
I sat beside her. “Regret blowing up like that?”
“No. Should’ve happened ages ago.”
“Mum was hurt at first, but… she gets it now.”
“Hurt, or scared we’d abandon her?”
“We’d never. She’s still Mum.”
Emily leaned into me. “Ed… let’s get that cat. For her.”
“Alright. You’re on litter duty, though.”
“We’ll share. Whole family.”And as the first rays of dawn peeked through the curtains, I realized—perhaps for the first time—that family isn’t just about blood, but about choosing to bend instead of break.
