For as long as I can remember, my mother and I have had a strained relationship, but never did I imagine things could go this far. I have two childrena nine-year-old girl and a six-year-old boy. Ive been raising them on my own since my separation. No one could say Im not responsible, hard-working, or loving towards my children, but my mother has always insisted, Youre not cut out to be a mother. Whenever she visited, she would inspect everything: opening the fridge, checking for dust, scolding me if the clothes werent folded just so, or if the children werent perfectly silent in her presence.
Last week, she came over under the guise of helping out because my son had a cold. She said she’d stay for two days. One afternoon while she popped out to the local shop, I was searching through a cupboard beneath the TV for a receipt and thats when I found it: a thick black notebook with a glaring red divider. At first, I thought it belonged to meone of those books where I jot down household expensesbut it wasnt. The handwriting inside was unmistakably hers. On the very first page, in her neat, upright script, it read:
Recordshould I need to take matters to court.
My hands shook as I turned the next page and therelined up with dateswere lists of what she considered my failings. Things like:
3rd September: children ate reheated rice.
18th October: daughter went to bed at 10pmfar too late for her age.
22nd November: laundry waiting to be folded in the sitting room.
15th December: saw her looking tirednot suitable for a mother.
Everything I did, every detail of my homeno matter how trivialshe had recorded as though it were a crime. There were even entries that were complete fabrications:
29th November: left child alone for 40 minutes.
That never happened.
But what chilled me to my core was a section titled Contingency Plan. There, shed listed the names of aunts she believed could testify that I was living under too much stressthough none of them had ever said such a thing. She had even printed out text messages in which I had asked her not to come over without calling, because I was busyshe was keeping them as evidence that I was rejecting help.
There was a paragraph outlining that if she could prove I was disorganised or untidy, she could try to apply for temporary custody of the children for their own good.
When she returned from the shop, I was shaking. I didnt know whether to confront her, say nothing, or just run. I slipped the notebook back exactly where Id found it.
That evening, she made a remarkseemingly innocent, but with all the subtlety of a dagger:
Perhaps the children would be better off with someone a bit more organised
Then I understoodthe notebook wasnt a rash impulse; it was a plan. Methodical. Calculated. Deliberate.
I never told her I’d seen it. I know if I did, shed deny everything, twist it all against me, make herself the victimand things would only become more dangerous.
I dont know what to do.
I am terrified.
And I am hurt, right to my very core.
