**Diary Entry – 28th April**
My daughter-in-law doesn’t even hide her hatred for me anymore. She called today, accusing me of trying to ruin her marriage with Michael.
I’m Margaret Elizabeth, sixty years old, a mother to one son. I devoted my life to him after my husband left when Mike was just two. Worked as a nurse at the local clinic, pulling night shifts so he never went without—clean school uniforms, warm meals, everything a boy should have.
He grew up kind, decent—a man I could be proud of. But now, it feels like he’s thrown it all away for a woman who doesn’t just disrespect me. No, she flaunts her contempt. Her name’s Charlotte.
From the first moment, she seemed… *too much*. Too loud, too sharp, too full of herself. When Michael brought her round to meet me, I sensed it—something cold in her stare, in the way she held herself. Those big, dark eyes fixed on me like a challenge, not a trace of warmth. But I told myself: *Don’t judge. Mike’s in love. Try to welcome her.*
We went to a café, and I knew then—she’d be trouble. Scolded the waiter over nothing, sent back dessert because it wasn’t “Instagrammable.” Spoke down to everyone like they were servants. And her outfit—a tiny playsuit, barely decent, cleavage on show. Meeting her future mother-in-law, no less. I bit my tongue, barely stopped myself from dragging Michael outside for a word.
I brushed it off as nerves. But no. Over the years, it only got worse. After the wedding, Michael hardly called. I didn’t push, but I missed him. A month passed—I rang him myself. Ice in his voice. Another time, when he did phone, I heard Charlotte in the background: *“Hang up. You’ve talked to her long enough.”* Not whispered—bold as brass.
I didn’t make a scene, but I asked him once: *What’s changed?* He sighed, told me Charlotte had baggage—a bad breakup in her twenties, a pregnancy, betrayal. Lost the baby. Therapy, meds, the lot. He swears she’s better now, just “sensitive.” But I know—it’s not sensitivity. It’s spite.
Days later, she rang me herself. Screaming. Said I was poisoning Michael against her, meddling, trying to wreck their marriage. *Me?* The woman who raised him alone, scraped by on a nurse’s wage? Now I’m the villain?
Michael—said nothing. Just his usual line: *“Mum, I’m a grown man. I’ve got my own family now.”* And what am I? Nothing? No right to even ask how he’s doing?
They live in *her* flat. Three-bed, freshly done. She crowed about buying it herself. Fine—property’s power, I know. But is that worth cutting a son off from his mother?
I don’t ask for money. Don’t drop by uninvited. All I wanted was to stay part of his life. A phone call now and then. A hug. Is that so wrong?
Sometimes I think Charlotte’s jealous. Not of Michael—of *me*. Of a bond she can’t touch. Though what bond’s left? He’s all warmth with her, all clipped politeness with me. Like I’m a stranger.
But I still hope. Hope he wakes up, sees you don’t erase your mother just because a wife demands it. Hope their marriage lasts, that they learn love isn’t rationed—loving me doesn’t steal from her.
I did my part. Raised him. Let him go. But I’ll wait. For the day he remembers. Calls. Holds me. Not out of duty. Because he wants to.
*Lesson learned: A mother’s love doesn’t end. But not all children remember where it began.*
