**Diary Entry – The Last Straw**
I scrubbed at the stubborn stains on the hob, my fingers stiff from the effort. Once again, Margaret had left a mess—milk boiled over, porridge burnt to the enamel. “Katie!” her voice rang from the living room. “Must you dawdle? I’d like my tea!” I sighed, rinsed the sponge, and put the kettle on. It was already nine in the evening. I’d just come home from work, while she’d been here all day, yet couldn’t bother to make her own brew.
“Coming, Margaret!” I called back, forcing cheer into my voice.
James was sprawled in front of the telly in the next room, barely glancing up as I walked past with the tray. Every day the same. He’d come home, eat, and plant himself there—leaving the house, his mother, the chores—all to me.
“You forgot the sugar,” Margaret grumbled when I set the cup before her. “And where are the biscuits? Tea’s not proper without biscuits.”
“We ran out yesterday,” I said quietly. “I’ll get more tomorrow.”
“See? You don’t keep track. In my day, a proper housewife knew what was in her cupboards. I raised James alone, kept a tidy home, and still managed work. But you lot—shopping and chatting on the phone is all you’re good for.”
I bit my tongue. Arguing was pointless. Margaret always found fault—the soup too salty, dust in the corners, the TV too loud or too quiet. Sometimes I wondered if she invented grievances just to scold.
“And you left Lily at nursery again,” Margaret went on, sipping her tea. “The teacher called, asking where her mum was. So embarrassing.”
“I asked you to fetch her. I had a meeting till seven.”
“And what am I, a nanny? I’ve my own affairs. Women in my time worked and raised children without help from grannies or hired girls.”
I retreated to the kitchen, hands shaking as I washed the dishes. Lily had waited in after-school club till half seven, crying because all the other children had gone home. Margaret had been here all day, watching telly, yet couldn’t be bothered.
In our bedroom, a stack of Lily’s drawings lay on the desk. She brought something home every day—a painting, a craft—eager to show me how she’d made it. Then she’d ask, “Mum, why doesn’t Grandma look at me? I show her my pictures, and she turns away.”
How do you explain to a six-year-old that her grandmother sees her as a nuisance? That since we’d moved in with Margaret, she’d complained nonstop—the noise, Lily touching things, breaking things.
It hadn’t always been like this. When James first brought me home, Margaret had been warm, asking about my job, my family. She’d even said, “Lovely girl, James. Well-mannered. Marry her—it’s time.”
Our wedding was small but happy. Margaret helped with the food, fussing, laughing. I’d thought us lucky—a mother-in-law who’d be like a second mum.
When Lily was born, Margaret doted at first. “My granddaughter! Clever, beautiful!” She helped with nappies, cooked soups, ironed baby clothes. I worked part-time, juggling home and child.
But slowly, things changed. First, nitpicking—nappies on wrong, porridge too runny. Then sharper remarks.
“Do you know nothing about children? James fed himself at her age! Yours can’t even manage a spoon!”
“She’s only fifteen months,” I’d say weakly.
“Exactly! You coddle her! I raised James strict, and look how he turned out.”
James seldom stepped in. He’d come home tired, eat, and zone out in front of the telly. If I complained, he’d shrug. “Mum’s just fussy. Ignore her.”
But ignoring didn’t work. If anything, Margaret grew worse—especially after we moved into her flat. Our cramped one-bed wasn’t enough for three, and her two-bed was in a nicer area.
“Move in,” she’d said. “Why waste money on rent? I’d enjoy the company.”
At first, it was a relief. Lily had her own room; no more rent struggles. But soon, I realised the trap.
“This is *my* home,” Margaret reminded us often. “*My* rules. Don’t like it? Leave.”
But where would we go? Renting was too dear; saving for our own place would take years. James dismissed talk of moving. “Why waste money? Mum’s right—this suits us.”
It suited *him*. He lived as he always had—Mum cooking, cleaning, managing. Only now, that was my job.
“Margaret, could you fetch bread?” I’d asked once. “Lily’s feverish—I’d rather not take her out.”
“Am I your maid?” she’d snapped. “Bread’s *your* duty. I’ve done my share.”
Yet she’d spend hours next door with Dorothy, gossiping. But fetch Lily from school? Buy groceries? Oh no—that wasn’t *her* duty.
It got harder when Lily started school. She needed help with homework, attention. Margaret only griped.
“That child slams doors! Gives me a headache!”
“She’s a child,” I’d say.
“And where’s her manners? I taught James: quiet at home, respect your elders. Yours stomps like an elephant!”
I shielded Lily best I could, but she heard it all. She grew quiet, unsure. At Margaret’s jabs, she’d duck her head, hide behind me.
“Mum, why doesn’t Grandma love me?” she asked once.
I lied. “She does, sweetheart. She’s just old—gets tired.”
But I knew the truth. Margaret didn’t love her—or me. She tolerated us because we cooked, cleaned, kept house. And because it suited James.
I tried talking to him. “Your mother calls Lily names! Says I’m a bad mother!”
“Don’t take it to heart. Mum’s just opinionated. She worked in nurseries—knows about children.”
I realised then—he’d never side with me. His mother was sacred. I was to endure.
So I did—for years. Swallowed rage, blinked back tears, smiled through gritted teeth. Cooked, cleaned, nursed Margaret when she was ill, absorbed every barb.
Then came the day my patience snapped.
I’d stayed late at work—a report due by morning. I rang home, asked Margaret to fetch Lily.
“Can’t. My head aches. Let her walk.”
“Margaret, she’s *eight*!”
“In my day, five-year-olds walked alone. You’ve spoiled her.”
Desperate, I called our neighbour, Claire, who agreed to fetch Lily.
At home, I found Margaret and Dorothy sipping tea with cake. “Oh, Katie’s back!” Margaret trilled. “Claire brought this lovely sponge!”
So—too ill to fetch her granddaughter, but not to entertain.
The next morning, it was the same. Breakfast, school run, work.
“Katie, will you make lunch?” Margaret asked. “The doctor said no fried food—I’ve no idea what to cook.”
“I’ll make soup, steamed cutlets.”
“And fetch my medicine. And bread. And milk. Don’t forget, like last time.”
The day blurred—work chaos, shopping, racing home to start soup.
“Katie! My pill! It’s time—you didn’t leave it!”
“I forgot. Here.”
“Forgot? I *told* you! My blood pressure—”
I fled back to work, head pounding.
That evening, Lily begged for ice cream outside the shop.
“Mum, *please*? All my friends get some!”
“Not today, love. When I’m paid.”
At home, Margaret was fuming.
“Where *were* you? I’ve waited *hours* for supper!”
“We stopped for bread.”
“Always gallivanting! Am I not to eat?”
Later, as I washed up, Margaret shouted, “Katie! Fetch my headache pill! And bring juice!”
No thank you. Just demands.
This was my life—up at six, work, chores, homework, laundry. Weekends: scrubbing. Margaret? TV, gossip, newspapers. But if *I* sat, suddenly there were floors to mop, windows to clean.
Then came the final straw.
I came home exhausted. Two colleagues laid off; my workload doubled. Lily was crying over maths.
“Mum, I don’t get it. Grandma said I’m too stupid to bother with.”
My vision blurred. Calling an eight-year-old *stupid*?
“We’ll figure it out,” I said, steady.
Half an hour later, she’d solved it. “Clever girl,” I whispered.
In the kitchen, Margaret flipped through a magazine
