**Diary Entry 23rd March**
I never wanted to live with my daughter-in-law, but here we are.
Margaret wiped her hands on her apron and peeked into the oven again. The apple pie had browned nicely on one side but still needed more time. Outside, the garden gate creakedmy son, his wife, and little Oliver were back from their walk.
“Granny!” Olivers bright voice rang out, and despite myself, I smiled. For that voice, Id put up with anythingeven sharing my space with Emily, my daughter-in-law.
“Mum, were you baking all day again?” David, my son, stepped into the kitchen, kissed my cheek, and immediately reached for the warm pie.
“Hands!” I smacked his fingers lightly. “Wash them first.”
“Margaret, you promised to rest today,” Emily said from the doorway, arms full of grocery bags. “We agreedId handle dinner.”
I pressed my lips together. There she was again, telling me what to do in my own sons house.
“I relax when I bake,” I said stiffly. “Besides, whats wrong with spoiling my grandson?”
Emily sighed and began unpacking the shopping without another word. David shot me a warning look*not again, Mum*. I pretended not to notice.
“Oliver, wash your hands. Well have tea with Grannys pie,” I called, pointedly ignoring Emily.
Once, I had my own life. My own little cottage where I was the sole mistress. Friends visited for Saturday tea, my roses bloomed in the garden, and evenings were spent watching telly curled in my armchair. Then came that wretched fire.
I still remember the smoke, the shouts, the wailing sirens. Standing in the street in my nightgown, wrapped in a borrowed coat, watching flames devour thirty years of my life.
“Dont worry, Mum,” David had said, arm around my shoulders. “Stay with us until the insurance sorts things out.”
That “stay” stretched into months. Their tiny two-bed flat became my reluctant refugesleeping on a fold-out in the lounge, folding it away each morning, always feeling like an intruder.
“Granny, can I help knead dough?” Oliver bounced back, hands still damp, eyes shining.
“Next time, love,” I smiled. “The pies already done, see?”
“But I want to bake now!”
“Not tonight, Ollie,” Emily cut in. “Grannys tired, and dinners soon.”
I shot her a glare. Always dictating. Always deciding for me.
“Im not tired,” I snapped. “And Ill spend time with my grandson as I please.”
“Mum.” David rubbed his temples. “Lets not do this again”
“What did I say wrong?” I threw up my hands. “Cant I even be with my own grandchild?”
“Of course you can,” Emily said evenly, though her knuckles whitened around the milk carton. “But we agreed on Ollies routine. Remember?”
“Hes *my* grandson!” My voice rose, that old irritation bubbling up. “*I* know whats best for him. I raised David, didnt I? Turned out fine.”
“Mum!” David slammed a hand on the table. “Enough!”
Emily left silently. Oliver clung to me, frightened. My throat tightened with unshed tears.
Id never have chosen this. Never. But the insurance barely covered the mortgage. A new place was beyond my pension.
“David, I didnt mean” My voice wavered. “Its just hard. A lifetime of independence, and now…”
“I know, Mum,” he sighed. “But this is Emilys home too. Shes Ollies mother. Her rules matter.”
Our old argument. I thought Emily too strictone hour of screen time, sweets only after meals, no snacks. Absurd, in my eyes.
Later, after Oliver was in bed, Emily knocked as I brushed my hair in the bathroom.
“Margaret,” she sat on the tubs edge. “I get how hard this is for you. But Ollies my child.”
I bit back a retort. In the mirror, her face looked exhausted, not cruel.
“I know youre a good mother,” I admitted. “But must you be so rigid?”
“His allergies,” she said quietly. “The chocolate you sneak him? His stomach cant handle it. Its not a whim.”
Guilt prickled.
“And Im working double shifts,” she added, “so we can save for a three-bed. One with *your* room. Not just a sofa bed.”
I froze.
“*What?*”
“David wanted it to be a birthday surprise. The deposits nearly there.”
Tears welled. All this time, resenting her, thinking she wanted me gone…
That night, I lay awake, replaying every petty clash.
Next morning, I made breakfastnot Olivers usual forbidden pancakes, but Emilys oatmeal with fruit.
“Youre up early,” she said, surprised.
“Thought Id help,” I mumbled. “Made it your way. Not too much honey?”
She tasted it. “Perfect. Thank you.”
I took a breath. “Could you… show me Ollies dietary list? Ill follow it. And his scheduleIll stick to that too.”
Her eyes widened.
“Of course. Ill pin it on the fridge. The bedtimes just so hes up for nursery…”
Suddenly, her rules made sense.
At breakfast, watching David squeeze Emilys hand under the table, I saw itthey *loved* each other. Despite everything.
Later, I told Oliver a gentle bedtime storyno goblins, just a hedgehog finding home.
As I helped Emily unpack groceries, it struck me: the fire wasnt an end. It was a strange new beginning.
“I never wanted to live with my daughter-in-law,” I said softly. “But home isnt walls. Its people. And I think… Ive found mine.”
She hugged me then, unexpected but warm. “Im glad youre here, Margaret.”
Thered be more squabbles, more compromises. But wed manage.
Because we were family. Not the one Id imagined, but the one I needed.
