**Diary Entry – The Weight of Tolerance**
The moment Mum stepped into the kitchen, her eyes darted around like a detective inspecting a crime scene. “Oh, hello again, kingdom of chaos! Emily, you’re home all day. You could’ve at least washed the dishes,” she sighed, shaking her head.
I was just pulling the bed sheets from the washing machine, my fingers stiff from the cold, my back aching so badly I could barely straighten up.
From the other room, a sniffle. Theo. Awake again.
“Mum, is that really all you can think about?” I asked, my voice flat, exhaustion dulling my gaze. “You know the kids are ill.”
Mum set a bag of oranges on the table and swept another critical look across the kitchen, exhaling in disappointment. “I just don’t understand how you can live like this. It’s only two children, not ten. And you’ve got a husband.”
I didn’t answer. I just draped the pillowcase over the radiator and hunched there for a second, the words bubbling under my skin—how two children could still grind you to dust. But I didn’t have the energy to scream.
All my strength had gone into Theo’s tantrums, Sophie’s fever, the endless cooking, the frantic nursery runs, the sleepless nights. It all hung around my neck like an anchor. And, as the cherry on top, Mum with her obsession over cleanliness.
I slipped into the hallway for a breather. Peeking into the bedroom, I saw Sophie asleep, her damp curls stuck to her forehead. Theo, already sitting up in his cot, rubbed his eyes with tiny fists.
“I thought you came to help,” I hissed, returning to the kitchen with my son. “The dishes can wait. Just sit with them.”
“Emily, whose children are these? Yours. I’m not as young as I used to be. Washing up is easier than wrangling toddlers.”
“Mum!” My voice cracked. “Can you just stop fussing over bloody plates for one second? One’s boiling with fever, the other’s clung to me all day! I haven’t slept in three nights. Your oranges, your lectures, your sodding mop—none of it helps.”
Mum pursed her lips, nostrils flaring. “I’m doing my best.”
“No, you’re just making it worse. Like always.”
I lowered Theo into his playpen, then grabbed the fruit bag and shoved it at her. “Take your oranges and go. Please.”
For once, even Theo went quiet. Mum gave me that look—half scorn, half disbelief—before snatching the bag like it was rigged to explode, and left.
When my chest finally stopped pounding, I sank to the floor beside the playpen and pulled Theo close. He sneezed wetly onto my shoulder. I sighed. Just what I needed.
I used to endure it all—gritting my teeth through Mum’s jabs because, well, she’s Mum. That’s how it goes. Half my friends have relatives like her. Not just mothers—grandmothers, mothers-in-law. Everyone tolerates it.
I’d hoped she might change one day. She never did.
Even as a kid, it was the same. I’ll never forget coming third in the county spelling bee. They gave me a certificate and a bar of chocolate. I was glowing when I handed it to her, about to say some of the credit was hers—but she cut me off.
“You’ve got mud all over your coat again! Walking around like that—what will people think? You’re a girl. You should be neater.”
If I brought home a single B in my report card, she’d lecture me for hours. When I mopped the floors, she’d inspect behind the doors and under the radiators.
Mum never praised me. At best, silence. At worst, a dig. All her compliments seemed rationed, and the coupons were never for me.
James, my husband, knew. He’d heard Mum say things like, “Why do your children need so many toys? When you were little, a set of blocks and a puzzle kept you happy.”
I tried not to invite her for dinner. But when I had to, I braced for the inevitable: “The roast’s dry again. Overcooked.”
Now, if she’d ever asked how I was doing? That never happened.
That evening, I texted James to vent. He knew Sophie was ill, knew I was barely holding it together, knew my history with Mum. But he was away on business. At least he could listen.
*I threw her out. No help, just stress.*
*Good. About time,* he replied instantly.
It helped. Validation—proof I’d done the right thing.
Sleep didn’t come. I woke coughing, the room still dark, the TV’s standby light glowing red. My phone said 5:30. Dawn wasn’t even close.
Theo fussed in his cot. Sophie whimpered beside him.
Every muscle ached. My throat burned. My legs felt like lead.
I staggered to the kitchen. The fridge was nearly empty—sour milk, a scrap of cheddar, a few eggs. Somewhere, stale bread and pasta lingered.
I could scrape together breakfast, but what then? Sophie’s medicine was running low, and I wasn’t much better. But who’d watch the kids? Delivery here was hopeless, especially for prescriptions.
*Need the chemist. No one to mind the kids,* I texted James.
*I’ll ask Alice,* he replied half an hour later.
I scoffed. Alice was married to her phone and laptop—blogging, editing, courses, her day job. She’d wanted a dog for years but “never had time.” Now she’d drop everything for her sick niece and nephew?
I didn’t expect much, but two hours later, the doorbell rang. There stood Alice, smoothing windblown hair, fidgeting with her collar—but there.
“Could I grab some water? Traffic was awful—parched,” she said, already heading to wash her hands. “Pour me a glass, I’ll see to Theo.”
My jaw nearly hit the floor. Alice strolled to the cot, bent down, and grinned. “Who’s this grumpy little bear? Show me your toys—or are you an expert at stealing Mummy’s hairbrush? Heard you broke her favourite.”
Like she’d known him forever. Like she hadn’t only seen him at holidays. Like there wasn’t ice between us after she’d missed our wedding for work.
Soon, she was feeding Theo banana, glancing at her phone—probably work emails.
“How’s Sophie?” she asked.
“In her room. Still feverish. Won’t drink. Syrup’s almost gone.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Give me a list, or go yourself—I’ll stay,” she huffed, but there was worry, not anger, in her voice.
When I returned, Theo was asleep in the playpen, Alice beside him, laptop open. “Put cartoons on. Not ideal, but better than everyone frazzled,” she muttered. “I’ll stay the night. Shift some work around. We’ll manage.”
Something inside me thawed. *We’ll manage.*
I remembered when I’d needed an MRI in another city. James was away. Theo wasn’t born yet, but even with just Sophie, it would’ve been brutal.
*Mum, can you take Sophie? Two days. Scans and tests.*
*Oh, Emily, absolutely not. What if something happens? I’d be blamed. Don’t put that on me.*
I’d rented a flat, hauled a backpack and buggy everywhere. When the doctor mentioned surgery, my stomach clenched. Just don’t let it be urgent—I couldn’t afford that luxury then.
And now? Here was Alice, practically a stranger, shoving her life aside to help.
The happiness didn’t last.
By evening, the doorbell rang again. A peek through the peephole. Mum. Another bag. A smile, but her eyes were sharp. I opened the door. Couldn’t exactly slam it.
I braced for another lecture, for judgement in front of Alice—but Mum outdid herself.
“Who’s *this*?” she whispered, toeing off her shoes.
“Alice. James’s sister. You met at his birthday,” I muttered.
“Ah. Right.” Her lips pursed. “So *I’m* turned away, but strangers are welcome?”
My brows shot up. Then I met her eyes. Alice’s silent presence lent me courage.
“She doesn’t judge me by dirty dishes. She helps—the way I *ask*. Unlike some.”
Mum flinched, frozen, as if struck. Her mouth moved, but no words came. She just turned and left.
I didn’t shut the door right away. But when the latch clicked, it felt like more than a door closing. A whole chapter of my life, sealed.
I knew Mum wasn’t pure villainy. I remembered Gran.
I was eight when we visited the countryside. Gran arrived a day lateShe stood in the doorway, watching Mum’s retreating figure, and realised some doors are meant to stay closed.
