**Diary Entry**
Eleanor had just put her son to sleep when the message popped up: “Be there soon.” The sender? Margaret Whitmore, her mother-in-law. A woman of challenging temperament, to put it mildly. No warmth, no care—just endless vanity, sharp remarks, and a desperate need to appear younger. No one knew her real age—she guarded it fiercely, insisting she was “eighteen at heart.”
When Eleanor was pregnant, Margaret made it clear from the start: don’t count on her. Her bustling life—gym sessions, ballroom dancing, dates—left no room for rocking a baby. She was firm:
“I’ve done my time with nappies. Not a day more.”
Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. There stood Margaret in a flashy dress, hair styled like a telly presenter’s, heels so high their clicks echoed through the flat. She swept in like she owned the place, kicked off her shoes, and marched to the kitchen.
“Ellie, love, make us a cuppa, yeah? Been rushing about all day—work, errands, shopping. Proper knackered. Oh, that emerald dress of yours—the one you wore to the office do—still got it?”
Eleanor tensed. “Yes.”
“Give it here. You’ve not shifted the baby weight, so it won’t fit now anyway.”
Her words stung. Yes, her body had changed—but hearing it tossed so carelessly by family? That hurt. Margaret, of course, wasn’t done.
“Not even curious why I want it?”
Eleanor stayed silent. She knew the drill: Margaret was always hunting for her next “Prince Charming”—someone younger, wealthier. Her life was one endless audition. No romance lasted more than a few months.
“Met a new bloke,” Margaret announced smugly. “Gorgeous, flat in Chelsea, drives a Jaguar. Probably a cad, though. Fancy helping me test him? Message him on Facebook, see if he bites.”
“Sorry, I won’t be part of that,” Eleanor said firmly.
“Oh, posh on you! Fine, keep your dress—use it as a rag, since you’ll never squeeze into it!” With a huff, Margaret stormed out, slamming the door.
Naturally, she complained to her son. William came home, heard both sides. He knew his mother was fiery—required “handling.” But frustration simmered beneath his calm.
“I’ll talk to her,” he murmured, pulling Eleanor close.
Days passed. For William’s birthday, a close mate cancelled last minute. Meanwhile, Margaret called—not to wish him well, but to moan about another failed fling.
Then she turned up again. Jar of marmalade in hand, apologies on her lips.
“Sorry, love. Lost my temper. Just… tired. Lonely. Keep picking the wrong ones. Take Jeremy—planned to move in, then his son rings, says I’m ‘wrecking the family.’ Turns out Jeremy’s up to his ears in debt, still married, and I was just a fling. Cut me off cold. Like I never existed.”
“Maybe he got scared?” Eleanor offered gently.
“Or he’s weak. His son threatened to clear his debts if he ditched me. So he did. Pathetic. Probably thought I’d drag him to the registry office and fleece him after. Can you believe it?”
As Margaret lamented, Eleanor listened quietly. William came in. Over supper, his mother launched into her usual act—woes of betrayal, exhaustion, aching to be pitied.
“Mum, maybe ease off the dramatics? The right chap’ll come along,” he said evenly.
“Oh, so I should sit about knitting till then?”
“No, but less chaos, yeah? Take your grandson to the park. Life’s not just men.”
“Ah, so you want free childcare? Not my job—he’s yours!”
“Christ, Mum, must you twist everything? Just find a hobby, not another disaster.”
“A hobby? I want love! And if I mess up, that’s my business! Tell your wife to sort herself out—still carrying baby weight, glued to the kid. No spark left. Think that’s how marriages last?”
“Enough! Leave Ellie out of it!”
The door slammed. Eleanor, listening from the hall, swallowed the lump in her throat and hugged William.
Because she knew: Margaret wouldn’t change. Never had, never would. The only choice? Learn to live with it—or build a wall between them.
