**A Diary Entry: The Unexpected Visit**
It was just another Tuesday morning when I kissed my husband, Edward, goodbye and shut the door behind him. The day promised to be long—remote work, chores, and the usual grind of settling into our rented flat in Manchester. We’d only just returned from our honeymoon, and though the place wasn’t ours, it was cosy—bright, warm, and overlooking the canal. The landlords had been picky, but they’d chosen us, a young professional couple, over others.
I was in the middle of replying to emails when the doorbell rang. No one was meant to visit. Yet there she stood—Margaret, Edward’s mother.
“Good morning,” I said, blinking in surprise.
“I’ve come to see my son. Let me in,” she demanded, already stepping past me.
“Edward’s at work.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll wait.” She moved toward the kitchen without hesitation.
“Wait—this isn’t a good time. I’ve got meetings. Come back this evening when he’s home,” I said firmly, blocking her path.
She scowled but turned on her heel and left. That evening, Edward seemed puzzled.
“Mum said you didn’t even offer her tea.”
“Ed, you know how she is—showing up unannounced, acting like it’s her house. I was working! And remember how she behaved at our last place?”
He sighed. “Mum won’t change. I invited her for Sunday roast. Let’s try again, calmly.”
I agreed but reminded him, “We’ve got cleaning Saturday, and Sunday evening we’re at the Wilsons’ for Sophie’s birthday. Our week’s packed.”
Sunday passed with few dramas. Margaret sat stiffly at the table, eating quietly but making snide remarks between bites.
“This flat’s too expensive. You could’ve rented something cheaper on the outskirts. And your parents have a house—couldn’t you have stayed there? Saved up for your own place?”
I kept my voice steady. “Ask Edward if he’d want to live with my parents.”
“No thanks,” he cut in. “I need my own space.”
“But this isn’t even yours!” she shot back.
“For a year, it is. We pay, and it suits us,” he said.
Then she offered, “Move in with me. I’ve got three bedrooms.”
“No, Mum. We’ll visit. Living together’s a bad idea—we’ve different routines.”
The next week, I was working from home again. Edward had left, and I’d just dozed off when the smell of fresh coffee woke me. Confused—Edward never made coffee before work—I threw on my dressing gown and walked into the kitchen. There sat Margaret, sipping coffee with a slice of cake.
“How did you get in?” I demanded.
“I’ve got keys. William gave them to me. It’s his flat—what’s his is mine.”
“Where did you get them?” I hissed.
“Took them Saturday. They were in the bowl. And I’m keeping them,” she said, unbothered.
“We’ll discuss this with Edward. Now, please leave. I’ve got work.”
“I’m not leaving till I’ve said my piece. I never liked you. That ridiculous name, no family connections. Edward used to give me half his wages—now it’s pennies! Spending it all on you—rent, restaurants, lounging about. And no grandchildren either! And your cooking—worse than a school canteen!”
“Finished?” I asked coolly. “Hand over the keys.”
“No. Never.” She reached for her handbag, but I was quicker. I sorted through its contents on the table and found them.
“Now, leave.”
“You’ll regret this! Edward’ll throw you out when he hears how you treated me!” she shrieked before slamming the door behind her.
That evening, I told Edward everything. He listened silently, then pulled me into a hug.
“I’ll handle it. And you were right.”
I didn’t cry. Because you must stand your ground in time—or some people will walk all over you, family or not.
