**Diary Entry – 12th March, 2024**
“What on earth are you on about, Mum?” Emily snapped, gripping the back of the chair. “What do you mean, ‘not your own’? I’m your daughter!”
“Don’t shout at me!” Margaret waved her off without even looking up from her newspaper. “I said what I said. And who are you to tell me what to do anyway?”
“Mum, what’s got into you?” James, Emily’s husband, rushed into the room. “The neighbours are banging on the wall!”
“Let them bang,” the old woman grumbled. “This is my house. I’ll say what I like.”
Emily sank onto the sofa, her legs suddenly weak. It had started over nothing—she’d asked her mother not to throw out the leftover soup, planning to heat it up tomorrow. But the words that followed left her reeling.
“Mum, is your blood pressure high?” Emily asked carefully. “Did you take your tablets?”
“What’s blood pressure got to do with it?” Margaret finally looked up, her gaze cold. “I meant every word. You were never truly mine.”
James exchanged a glance with his wife. In thirty years of knowing his mother-in-law, he’d seen her in every mood—but never like this.
“Margaret, maybe we should call a doctor?” he suggested. “You’re not yourself today.”
“I’m perfectly sane!” she shot back. “I’m done pretending. Enough of this happy-family act!”
Emily’s throat tightened. Was it possible her mother had felt this way all along? Had she spent a lifetime hiding her resentment?
“Mum, what are you saying?” Her voice trembled. “I’ve always been there for you. Looked after you when you were ill, brought groceries, helped with bills—”
“Exactly!” Margaret stood abruptly, the newspaper slipping to the floor. “Out of *pity*! You thought it was your *duty*! What do I want with that sort of care?”
“Pity?” Emily stared, bewildered. “How can you say that? I love you!”
“Liar.” Margaret turned to the window, staring blankly at the garden. “No one loves me. Not even you.”
James squeezed Emily’s hand. She was ghostly pale, shaking.
“Let’s go to the kitchen,” he murmured. “Give her time to calm down.”
“No.” Emily stood. “Mum, explain this to me. Why are you saying these things?”
Margaret turned slowly. A bitter smile twisted her lips.
“Why explain? You think I don’t know what you say about me? ‘Old,’ ‘ill,’ ‘a burden.’”
“I *never* said that!”
“Oh, please!” Margaret scoffed. “I heard you and James whispering in the kitchen. You thought I wouldn’t notice? My hearing’s sharper than you think.”
James frowned, wracking his brain. What could they have said to upset her so?
“What did we say?”
“You don’t remember?” Margaret narrowed her eyes. “About putting me in a care home. About how I’m in the way.”
Emily gasped. It was true—a month ago, they *had* discussed it. Not to abandon her, but out of worry. Margaret had started leaving the stove on, forgetting neighbours she’d known for years.
“Mum, we weren’t sending you away,” Emily pleaded. “We were just concerned—”
“Don’t feed me lies!” Margaret cut her off. “I’ve had enough of your *pretend* kindness!”
Tears welled in Emily’s eyes. How could she believe this? She’d tried so hard to be a good daughter—through work, her own children, everything.
“Mum… what did I do wrong?”
“What did you do *right*?” Margaret sank back into her chair. “You live your life, drop in when *you* see fit, ask about my health like it’s a chore. You think that’s enough?”
“But I call every day! I buy your shopping, arrange your doctor’s visits!”
“You go through the *motions*,” Margaret said tiredly. “But where’s your heart? When did you last visit just to talk? To have tea and ask how I *really* am?”
Emily hesitated. Lately, their time together *had* been all errands—prescriptions, repairs, forms.
“Mum, I have my own family, my job—”
“Exactly!” Margaret snapped. “You’ve got *everything*. And what have I got? *Nothing*. Sat here alone, waiting for my daughter to *grace* me with a visit!”
“Then *move in* with us! We’ve asked you!”
“Why? To be a *nuisance*? To hear my grandkids sigh when I speak?”
James opened his mouth, but Margaret barrelled on.
“You think I don’t see it? You rush in, tick off your tasks, and leave. Like I’m some *obligation*.”
Emily covered her face. The worst part? She *was* right.
“I… I tried to help,” she whispered.
“*Help*?” Margaret scoffed. “But did you ever talk to me like a *person*? Ask how I *feel*? Share *your* life?”
“I *do* share—”
“Work stress. The kids’ grades. Money troubles. But what about *you*? Your joys, your fears?”
Emily looked up. Her mother’s eyes were glistening.
“I… thought you wouldn’t care.”
“Wouldn’t *care*?” Margaret moved closer. “I *feel* every shift in your voice—when you’re upset, when you’re happy. But you *hide* it from me!”
“I didn’t want to burden you.”
“Then what’s a mother *for*?” Margaret sat beside her. “Just feeding and medicating me?”
Silence fell. James lingered by the window, respecting their space.
“You know what hurts most?” Margaret said suddenly. “You don’t *see* me. To you, I’m just an old woman to manage.”
“That’s not true—”
“It *is*. When did you last ask what I *think*? What I *want*?”
Emily searched her memory—but only chores came to mind.
“What *do* you want, Mum?” she asked softly.
Margaret smiled sadly.
“Too late for that now.”
“Better late than never.”
Margaret gazed out the window.
“I want to be loved—not pitied. I want to matter. I want my daughter to visit because she *misses* me, not because she *has* to.”
“But I *do* miss you!” Emily clasped her hand. “I just… don’t know how to show it.”
“Or you don’t *want* to.”
“I don’t *know how*.” Emily swallowed. “No one taught me.”
Margaret studied her.
“What do you mean?”
“Remember how you raised me? ‘Stop crying.’ ‘Don’t fuss.’ ‘Get on with it.’ When I tried to hug you, you’d say, ‘Stop clinging, I’ve got work.’”
Margaret frowned.
“I was always exhausted—”
“I know. But I grew up not knowing *how* to love openly. I thought you didn’t need it either.”
Margaret’s voice softened.
“I *always* needed it. I just… couldn’t say so.”
They sat quietly, hands entwined. James eased into the armchair opposite.
“So we’re both daft,” Emily whispered, tears spilling.
“Seems so.”
“Mum… why ‘not your own’?”
Margaret looked away.
“Just nonsense. Spiteful words.”
“No. Tell me.”
A long pause. Then, quietly:
“Sometimes I look at you… and you feel like a stranger. Like there’s a wall between us.”
Emily squeezed her hand.
“We *built* that wall. Me with my silence. You with your hurt.”
“…Maybe.”
“Can we tear it down?”
Margaret turned to her.
“I don’t know. But we can try.”
“Then let’s try.” Emily’s grip tightened. “No more pretending.”
“No more pretending.”
Emily took a shaky breath.
“Mum… do you know I worry every time I come over? That you’ll fall ill, that something will happen?”
“I didn’t.”
“And… I’m terrified I’ll do something wrong. That you’ll *disapprove*.”
“Why?”
“Because I *love* you. I want you to be happy.”
Margaret wiped her eyes.
“I… didn’t know that.”
“Now you do.”
Margaret exhaled.
“And I love *you*, Emily. Always have.”
They embraced—and for the first time in years, it felt *real*. Not out of duty, but need.
James slipped out to make tea, leaving themAs the teacups were set down, Emily realised that the hardest words had brought them closer than decades of silence ever could.
