Dear Diary,
I still cant wrap my head around how this all unfolded. My mother seemed determined to push her own daughter out of the world.
I had a best friend, Ethel Whitaker. Wed been inseparable since primary school. She often told me how heavy her life felt, all because shed spent the last twenty years living with her husband and her own mother.
Margaret Hargreaves was the sort of woman who took pleasure in using others, caring little that the person she was exploiting was her own child. Nothing ever went her way, and she made a habit of blaming everyone else. By the time she reached eightyfive, she was still surprisingly spry for her age.
Margaret always believed Ethel owed her somethingher whole life, in fact. When Ethels husband abandoned her after she became pregnant and found another woman, Margaret vented all her fury on her daughter, who reminded her too much of her own father.
Ethel was never the daughter Margaret loved; she was treated more like a servant, a cleaner, a slave, never a child. She juggled two jobs, and as soon as she got home she would mop the floors and cook dinner. Margaret refused to lift a finger herself. On several occasions she even sulked because Ethel prepared a meal she didnt like. And guess what? The poor girl quit her job and drove to the other side of Manchester just to cook whatever Margaret demanded.
That day was Ethels birthday. We all gathered around the tableshed laid out a splendid spreadbut I noticed she looked terribly downcast. She confided that a scandal had broken out with her mother. In any case we all left early.
The next morning I discovered Ethel was gone. It turned out that after we had all left, Margaret had sparked another fight. Ethels heart gave way, and no one called an ambulance. She slipped away in the night. Thats how Margarets cruelty claimed her own childs life.
Ive learned a hard truth: no amount of control can rewrite destiny, and love that masquerades as domination only breeds tragedy.
