**Diary Entry, 12th June**
“Well, he’s not coming…” sighed Margaret with a heavy heart. “My husband and I barely even flinch now—we’ve grown used to it. The same old story every time: promises, then silence.”
“What happened this time?” I asked. “Was it the daughter-in-law again? I recall you two never quite got along…”
“Maybe she did forbid it, though my son would never admit she’s the one keeping him away. But it’s plain as day. He used to visit more often. Now? Nothing. She’s found a way to keep him tied down. Even the roof might need fixing with hired hands—apparently, Jonathan can’t spare a single day,” Margaret said, bitterness creeping into her voice.
She was talking about her 40-year-old son, Jonathan. He left his hometown twelve years ago, settled in Manchester, and works as a mechanic. Once hands-on, now he mostly oversees others. Married late, bought a flat—all on his own. His wife, Rebecca, wasn’t young when they met.
“She’d never had a serious relationship before him,” Margaret went on. “And I see why. Difficult woman, that one. We clashed from the start. I tried, truly. But she… acted as though I were the enemy from day one.”
“I’ve heard her on the phone a couple of times,” chimed in the neighbour. “Even her ‘hello’ sounds mocking. Can’t fathom what he sees in her.”
Rebecca barely speaks to Jonathan’s parents. Once a year, if she permits it, he may visit—alone. This spring, he’d promised to come and help with the roof. Bought the train tickets too. But his wife, as it turned out, had other plans.
“She’s pregnant,” Margaret said irritably. “Now, apparently, he can’t leave her side. A grown woman, a nurse—what could possibly happen to her? Two weeks of nagging later, and he caved.”
Her husband shook his head. “Does he hold her hand at work, then? Her parents live nearby—let them help. Why must he give up everything for her?”
“Exactly,” Margaret agreed. “I’m sure her mother’s behind it. ‘Don’t let him go, he might leave you.’ Her younger sister’s already a single mum, living back home.”
“But Jonathan isn’t like that,” I argued. “He’s decent. Why not visit together?”
“Rubbish!” Margaret waved a hand. “Rebecca would never set foot here. The one time my husband phoned her, she threw such a fit he told me not to call Jonathan again. Useless.”
“What did she say to him?”
“That we’re always demanding something. That we’re keeping him from his family. That she’s tired of ‘fighting’ us. That his holiday should be with his wife and child, not ‘indulging his parents’ whims.’ Oh, and our house? ‘Keep it—I don’t want it.’”
“The nerve! And Jonathan?”
“Says it’s not his fault. Doesn’t want to ‘rock the boat,’ worries about the pregnancy. I understand. But it isn’t fair. We raised him, gave him all we could. Now he can’t spare a single day?”
Her husband finally snapped. In frustration, he told Jonathan he’d hire a crew—no more waiting. “Stay with your wife if she matters more than your parents.”
“But he doesn’t see it,” Margaret said quietly. “There could be other wives… Parents? Only one set. And they won’t be here forever.”
**Lesson:** Some bonds fray too easily. But blood shouldn’t thin with distance—or with a wedding ring.
