**Diary Entry – Monday, 18th September**
*I wish for peace.*
“Morning,” I muttered as I walked into the office, flopping into my seat and switching on the computer without much enthusiasm.
“Good morning,” came the replies from Victoria and Emily, who exchanged puzzled glances before shrugging.
Normally chatty and easygoing, today I sat in silence, gloomy as the grey skies outside, drizzling with rain. The office was quiet until Victoria—who never could stand prolonged silence—broke the stillness.
“Right, girls, coffee time. I’ll make us some,” she declared, standing up and heading toward the small partition where our coffee machine sat, alongside mugs, a sugar bowl, and the odd biscuit tin.
“Go on, then,” Emily agreed, while I stayed quiet.
There are three of us in the office. I’m married with a son, thirty years old. Victoria’s also married with two children, thirty-six. Emily isn’t married but lives with her boyfriend—she’s the youngest at twenty-seven.
Victoria’s the most assertive—maybe because she’s the eldest, or maybe just by nature—but she’s usually the one making decisions while the rest of us go along.
She emerged with a tray carrying three steaming mugs. When she handed me mine, I took it with a silent nod of thanks.
“Ta, Vic,” Emily said with a grin. “You’re the office housewife.”
They both laughed. I managed a weak smile. Victoria wasn’t one to let things slide.
“Dana, what’s wrong? Spit it out. This is unsettling—don’t tell me we’ve upset you?”
“Don’t be daft, Vic. Family stuff,” I admitted.
“Blimey, not trouble with Michael?” Emily looked shocked. They all knew we rarely argued—I’d never once complained about him.
“Well, not with him. More… extended family.”
“Ah.” Victoria rolled her eyes. “Not Cecily again? Honestly, ignore her.”
“Easier said than done when we share the same garden. We can’t just move—we’ve a perfectly good house. Michael brushes it off, his brother Simon’s decent enough, but Cecily…” I exhaled sharply. “I finally snapped at her yesterday. Now I don’t know how we’ll live next to each other.”
When I married Michael, his father had just finished building a second house in the same garden next to his own. We moved in straight after the wedding—Simon, his wife Cecily, and their toddler already lived in the main house. Both homes were solid, well-built. His dad had been a foreman at a construction firm, so materials came cheap.
But barely a week after the wedding, tragedy struck—Michael and Simon’s parents died in an accident. Since then, we’ve lived side by side with Simon’s family.
At first, things were fine. Cecily and I even had children around the same time—a boy for me, a girl for her. Life ran parallel.
“Mike, isn’t it lovely living so close to your brother?” I’d say, cheerful.
“It’s all right,” was his typical, understated reply.
Once the kids were older, Cecily and I returned to work, sending the children to nursery. But as time passed, I realised just how different we were. Obviously, people have different temperaments, but Cecily took it to another level.
Michael and I never argued. Meanwhile, Cecily and Simon’s rows carried clear across the garden—her temper was legendary. Nothing ever satisfied her, and the whole street knew it.
“Blimey, Cecily’s on one again,” Michael would sigh. “Poor Simon drew the short straw.”
I’m quiet, peace-loving. Cecily? The opposite.
“I don’t need crowds or noise,” I’d tell her. “My family’s my world—just Michael and Henry. I love a quiet home.” And Michael was the same. We fit together perfectly.
That’s how I was raised—a calm, loving household where my parents never fought. But Cecily? She thrived on noise.
“You lot never want to *mingle*,” she’d say. “We’re *family*—we should spend every minute together!”
I understood sentiment, but to me, family meant Michael and Henry. Simon’s lot were relatives, not *my* family. Michael agreed, but Cecily’s intensity wore me down. Worse—she acted like she owned the whole garden. Technically, we each had our own space, but as the elder sister-in-law, she’d appointed herself queen bee. I’d never challenged it, and now it was too late.
Raised with manners, I’d never dream of barging into Simon’s house uninvited. If I needed something, I’d knock or even ring first.
Cecily? She’d storm into ours like a hurricane—no knock, no warning. Didn’t matter if Henry was napping or we were busy—she’d burst in with her usual carelessness.
“Oops, Dana, you putting Henry down? Never mind, I’ll pop back later!” she’d say—except by then, he’d be wide-eyed from her screeching.
“Mike,” I’d complain later, “it’s like she *times* these intrusions.” He’d agree, but what could he do?
Weekends were worst. I love early mornings—rising before everyone, brewing coffee, watching dawn through the kitchen window while the house sleeps. For Michael and Henry, I’d cook scrambled eggs, porridge. No rush, no stress.
Then, without fail—*knock knock*—Cecily’s face at the window.
“Oh, you’re up! Pour me one, won’t you?” And in she’d sweep, despite Michael still being asleep. “Oh, breakfast’s ready? I’m starved—let’s eat!”
Those moments *infuriated* me. I hadn’t cooked for *her*. But I could hardly kick her out. Sometimes I’d make excuses—rarely worked.
“What, too stingy to spare two eggs?” she’d snipe, then sulk all day, making the garden tense.
Cecily was ruled by her moods. “If I wake up happy, I’m sunshine itself!” she’d boast. “But cross me? *Run*.”
“Charming,” Simon would mutter—but one look from her shut him up.
Once, overhearing them, I froze mid-sweep by our window.
“Cec, leave Michael’s family *alone*,” Simon hissed. “If *they* barged in like you do, you’d lose it. Why sprint over at dawn when even our kids are still asleep?”
I didn’t catch her reply—didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping. But it stung. *Why does Simon see it, but she doesn’t?* I respected him more after that.
Last night, Michael and I ordered sushi—a treat for Henry’s straight-As. When the delivery arrived, I stepped out to pay.
Then—*bang*—Cecily’s front door flew open.
“SUSHI?!” she shrieked. “Why weren’t we *invited*? What’s the *occasion*? God, you’re *selfish*!”
A full-blown row erupted. Simon dragged her inside while Michael steered me back to our kitchen. My hands shook as I cried.
“Why must I *consult* her on *everything*? Can’t we have one *quiet meal*?”
Michael soothed me, but I knew—Simon wasn’t the issue. *She* was. Eventually, I murmured, “Honestly? I’d be *relieved* if she never spoke to me again. Simon’s fine—but *her*? She’s *everywhere*.”
I’d barely slept after that—hence this morning’s gloom.
“Well *that’s* a fine mess,” Victoria exclaimed. “Ten years of this? I’d have barred her at the gate!”
Emily agreed. “She’s toxic. Just cut her off.”
Victoria snorted. “People like her *need* control. Just grey-rock her.”
Easy for them to say. They’d never dealt with Cecily. But I’d had enough. Next time? I’d stand my ground—manners be damned.
