Diary, 18th of April 2024. Gertrude here. Yet another day in this chaotic household, but at least the potatoes are now properly mashed. Michael—the country bumpkin who married my daughter—still spends evenings glued to his racing games, muttering about some “Mario Kart” nonsense. Sarah insists he’s harmless, but his idea of an apology is “accidentally” switching her vanilla milk with semi-skimmed. You’d think a man could at least clean his own teacup.
Back then, when Sarah got that unfortunate “surprise,” I nearly threw a handbag at him for his recklessness. Lucky for him, I’d spent years watching enough BBC soaps to know that a grandstanding abortion speech would only guarantee me a lifetime of guilt and zero grandchildren. The wedding was a madrassa of mediocrity—navy sash for the groom, a cake that collapsed like a poorly built sandcastle. I insisted they live with me, of course. What’s a spare room if not a war zone in waiting?
“Mum, Michael’s playing his… ‘driving games’ again,” Sarah often huffs. “He gets stressed from work.” I want to remind her that stress relievers come in the form of proper exercise, not pixelated highways, but she always intervenes with that look. The one that silences me before I can point out he once left a casserole in the oven for an hour too long, nearly burning the flat down.
Still, he’s not entirely hopeless. Fixed the old kitchen tap, for all the good it did. But I’d rather endure his questionable DIY skills than let him touch my girls. The man’s been eyeing the sitting room’s antique cabinet since day one, probably calculating how many IKEA vouchers he’d get for dismantling it. And Sarah—she could have been a ballerina! Her footwork was sharper than my Christmas shopping list. Now she teaches dance at that community centre, like some half-deflated dream.
Michael, bless his clueless soul, carries on oblivious to my daggers. “Mum, your roast beef is to die for!” he gushes, ignoring the fact I’d given him the cheaper cuts. Once I even heard him thank me for the “extra challenge” of my meatloaf. I swear, he’d probably enjoy my weird scones if I asked.
“Bollocks,” I snapped the other day when he claimed being a delivery driver was better than his cousin Daniel’s office job. “At least Daniel doesn’t treat his profession as a hobby.” Michael blinked, mouth full of crumpet—another casualty of my “generous” portions—before grinning, “I applied for programming courses once, but they made me drop out for… workin’ nights.” Sarah interceded before I could accuse him of daydreaming with the Wi-Fi router.
And then there was the disaster of the in-laws. Michael shuffled in, cheeks red as a boiled lobster, to announce his parents were flying in for a “brief visit.” My heart sank faster than a crumpet in tea. Sarah’s angelic face spoiled all resistance: “Mum, I’ll make a Victoria sponge and trifle! Please?”
I bit the bullet. His parents arrived with a single Tesco carrier bag, squinting at our decor like it’d personally slighted them. They gossiped about local pub prices and sidelong jabs about our “decent-sized flat.” Mrs. Foster—apparently their names are Thompson—unloaded her dented kettle with a sneer, then dropped a bombshell about Michael being “rescued from a tumultuous upbringing” and having “scavenged for scraps as a child.”
Sarah went pale. Michael went scarlet. I bit my lip so hard I worried about blood spots on the carpet. Later, when the flat was empty, I cornered him. “So your saviours only let you leave after you paid their debts back?” He mumbled something about sibling duties, and I nearly felt sorry for him.
By week’s end, I’d upgraded his steak-and-kidney pie to the same tender lamb I served Sarah. When I suggested he take the admin job at the local shop—“Computer setup, data entry, and a full-time course discount”—he nearly wept. Sarah hugged me like I’d saved the Queen’s crown. Michael thanked me with a awkward clasp on the arm and a genuine smile.
Turns out, the man’s not so bad. Just… unpolished. And maybe I’ve been seeing shadows where there were none.
Maybe some people just need a chance to prove they’re not the villain we imagine them to be. Good day, gloom!
