**Diary Entry – A Breaking Point**
The kitchen was a mess again. Emily scrubbed at the burnt stains on the hob—another disaster left by her mother-in-law, Margaret. Boiled-over milk, scorched porridge, all baked onto the enamel.
“Emmy!” Margaret’s voice carried from the sitting room. “Are you still fussing in there? I’d like my tea!”
Emily sighed, rinsed the sponge, and filled the kettle. Nine in the evening, straight from work, while Margaret had been home all day—yet couldn’t be bothered to make her own tea.
“Coming, Margaret!” she called, forcing her voice steady.
In the next room, James sat glued to the telly, barely glancing up as she passed with the tray. Typical. He came home, ate dinner, then parked himself in front of the screen. Meanwhile, the house, his mother, the chores—all fell to her.
“You forgot the sugar!” Margaret grumbled when Emily set down the cup. “And no biscuits. What’s tea without biscuits?”
“We ran out yesterday,” Emily said quietly. “I’ll buy more tomorrow.”
“See, this is what I mean! In my day, a proper housewife knew what was in her cupboards. I raised James alone, kept everything in order, managed work—but you lot? Just shopping and chatting on your phones.”
Emily bit her tongue. Arguing was pointless. Margaret always found fault—the soup too salty, dust on the shelves, the telly too loud or too quiet. Sometimes, she wondered if her mother-in-law invented grievances just to scold.
“And you left Lily at nursery again,” Margaret went on, sipping her tea. “The teacher called, asking where her mother was. Embarrassing, honestly.”
“I *asked* you to fetch her. I had a meeting till seven.”
“Am I the nanny now? I have my own affairs. Women in my time worked *and* raised children without help.”
Emily retreated to the sink, hands shaking with anger. Lily had waited in after-school club till half seven, crying as the others left. Meanwhile, Margaret had sat at home, watching telly—too busy to collect her granddaughter.
In the bedroom lay a stack of Lily’s drawings. She brought something home daily—pictures, crafts—eager to show her mum, chattering about how she’d made them. Then she’d ask, “Mum, why doesn’t Grandma look at me? I show her my drawing, and she turns away.”
How do you explain to a six-year-old that her grandmother sees her as a nuisance? That since they’d moved into Margaret’s house, the old woman complained constantly—too noisy, too clumsy, too *much*.
It hadn’t always been like this. When James first introduced Emily, Margaret had been warm, asking about her job, her family. “Lovely girl,” she’d said. “Well-mannered. Marry her, James—it’s time.”
The wedding was modest but cheerful. Margaret helped with the food, bustling about, delighted. Emily had thought herself lucky—a mother-in-law who’d be like a second mum.
When Lily was born, Margaret doted at first. A granddaughter! Pretty, clever! She helped with nappies, cooked soups, ironed tiny clothes. Emily worked part-time, juggling home and baby.
Then, slowly, things shifted. First, nitpicking—nappies on wrong, porridge too runny. Then harsher criticisms.
“Do you know *nothing* about children?” Margaret would snap. “James fed himself by her age—your girl can’t even manage a spoon!”
“She’s *one*,” Emily protested weakly.
“Exactly! Spoilt! I raised James strictly, and he turned out fine.”
James stayed out of it. Came home tired, ate, zoned out to the telly. If his mother nagged, he’d shrug.
“Mum, leave her be. Emily does well.”
Mostly, he stayed silent. When Emily vented about the constant criticism, he’d say, “Ignore her. She’s just set in her ways. She’ll adjust.”
She never did. If anything, she grew worse—especially after they moved into her two-bedroom in a nicer part of town. Their cramped flat wasn’t enough for three; Margaret’s offer seemed a blessing.
“Move in,” she’d said. “Save the rent. I’ll enjoy the company.”
At first, it worked. Lily had her own room; no more scraping for rent. But soon, Emily realised the trap.
“This is *my* home,” Margaret reminded her. “*My* rules. Don’t like it? Leave.”
And where would they go? Renting cost too much; buying took years. James dismissed moving: “Why waste money? Mum’s right—this suits us.”
Suited *him*. He lived as he always had—Mum cooking, cleaning, managing. Only now, Emily did it all.
“Margaret, could you fetch bread?” Emily asked once. “Lily’s poorly; I don’t want to drag her out.”
“Am I the maid?” Margaret sniffed. “Bread’s *your* job. I’ve done my share.”
Yet she found time daily to gossip with neighbour Doris for hours. But fetch Lily from school? Buy groceries? Not her duty.
School worsened things. Lily needed help with homework, attention. Margaret just complained: “That child slams doors! Gives me a headache!”
“She’s *six*,” Emily said.
“And why isn’t she taught respect? I raised James quiet, mindful of elders. Yours stomps like an elephant!”
Emily shielded Lily best she could, but the girl heard it all. Grew withdrawn, unsure. Shrank at Margaret’s barbs, hiding behind her mum.
“Mum, why doesn’t Grandma love me?” she asked once.
Emily lied. “She does, sweetheart. She’s just old—gets tired.”
But she knew the truth. Margaret tolerated them—cooks, cleaners, caretakers. And it suited James.
Emily begged him to see how it wore her down. He didn’t—or wouldn’t.
“Relax. Mum’s kind—just likes a moan. Don’t take it to heart.”
“She called Lily *stupid* to my face! Says I’m a bad mother!”
“So? Mum raised kids, worked in nurseries. Maybe listen?”
Emily realised then—he’d never side with her. His mother was sacred; his wife must endure.
And endure she did. Swallowed rage, blinked back tears, smiled through gritted teeth. Cooked, cleaned, nursed Margaret through illnesses, absorbed the jabs.
Then came the final straw.
Emily worked late—a report due by morning. She rang Margaret: “Please fetch Lily.”
“Can’t. My head aches. Let her walk.”
“Margaret, she’s *eight*!”
“In my day, five-year-olds walked alone. You coddle her.”
Desperate, Emily called neighbour Marion to collect Lily.
Home near midnight, exhausted, she found Margaret hosting Doris, laughing over tea and cake.
“Oh, Emmy’s back!” Margaret chirped. “We’re having dessert—Doris brought this lovely Victoria sponge!”
So—too ill to fetch a child, but not for guests.
Morning brought the usual chaos—breakfast, school run, reminders.
“Emily, what’s for lunch?” Margaret asked. “The doctor said no fried food.”
“I’ll make soup, steamed fish.”
“And fetch my pills. And bread. *Don’t forget* like last time.”
The day blurred—work crises, errands, hurrying home to start dinner.
“Emily! Where’s my pill? It’s *time*!”
“Sorry—here.”
“You *forgot*? I could’ve had a spike in blood pressure!”
Evening: collected Lily, bought bread. The girl begged for ice cream.
“Mum, *please*? All my friends get some!”
“Not now, love. When I’m paid.”
Home, Margaret scowled. “Where *were* you? Dinner’s ruined!”
“Lily had school club, then shopping—”
“Shopping! Always *something*! Do I not matter?”
The soup was “too salty,” the potatoes “undercooked.”
“Maybe *you* cook, then,” Emily snapped.
“*My* time’s done. *Your* turn to care for *me*.”
James came home late, ate silently, tuned out to the telly. Emily cleaned, helped Lily with maths, did laundry. Her skull throbbed.
“Emily! Bring my headache pills! And pour juice!”
No thanks. Just demands.
Every. Damn. Day.
Then—the breaking point.
Emily found Lily crying over maths. “Grandma said I’m stupid if I can’t do it alone.”
Rage choked her. Calling a child *stupid*?
They solved it together. Lily was bright—just needed guidance.
“Mum, am I really stupid?”
“*Never.* Grandma didn’t mean it.”
Kitchen. Margaret flipped a magazine. “That child’s dim. Like her mother.”
