**Diary Entry – 3rd October**
Three years now, and it feels like a never-ending nightmare. It all began when my son David, a grown man of thirty-five, brought his new wife into our cramped two-bedroom flat in London. Her name was Emily, and she already had two children from a previous marriage. “Just for a little while,” he said. *Temporary*. How often we mothers cling to that word.
Three years later, and the flat isn’t just crowded—it’s a battlefield. Me, David, his wife, her two kids, and now… she’s expecting another. God must’ve decided I didn’t deserve peace or comfort in my old age. Maybe this is punishment.
Emily isn’t ill or disabled—just past thirty. But she won’t work. “Busy with the children,” she says. Except the kids are at nursery all day. Emily? She’s off shopping, meeting friends, or getting her nails done. Where exactly, I’ve no idea.
At first, David swore they’d sort the paperwork, she’d find a job, and they’d rent a place or get a mortgage. I believed him. A mother always hopes. But one year passed, then another, now a third. Nothing’s changed—except Emily’s growing belly.
She isn’t openly rude, mind you. Polite words, no swearing. But she does nothing. No cleaning, no cooking, barely watching her own kids—just plonking them in front of the telly with a snack while she scrolls on her phone. By evening, it’s silence from her and shrieks from them.
Everything falls on me. Up at four, scrubbing floors at two offices, home by eight—straight to laundry, cooking, scrubbing grease off the hob before the house wakes. David and Emily expect dinner ready, clothes washed, floors mopped. Only after nine do I finally sit—sometimes just leaning against the kitchen counter, crying from exhaustion.
My pension vanishes into bills and groceries. David’s wages don’t stretch far with so many mouths, and Emily’s “on maternity leave”—conveniently, *before* it even started.
Last week, I tried talking to David. Said the flat’s too small, my health’s failing—ended up in hospital when my blood pressure spiked while cooking. The doctor warned me: no more strain. David just shrugged. *”Mum, we’ve got nowhere else. The flat’s half mine. You’ll have to manage.”*
That was it. No gratitude. No son.
I’m thinking of leaving. Borrowing, scraping for a tiny flat—somewhere quiet, somewhere *mine*. I can’t survive another baby in this chaos. This isn’t living, it’s servitude. A slave in my own home, in my own *old age*. And the worst part? Not one of them spares a thought for how I feel. They just *take*—meals, clean clothes, silence.
I want to scream, but I bite my tongue. I can’t go on, yet I do. Because without me, it’s filth and hunger. Because I’m a mother. A grandmother. Because I’m *alone*.
**Lesson learnt:** Kindness shouldn’t mean self-destruction. Sometimes, the ones you love most are the ones who drain you dry.
