**Wednesday, 15th March**
Day after day, I cook, clean, wash, and dress her. Why does she despise me so much?
Life in this quiet village outside Manchester has become unbearable. I, Emily, have shared a roof with my mother-in-law, Margaret, for years, and she’s turned every one of those days into misery. Today, I finally broke—I asked her the question that’s haunted me for years: *“Why do you hate me so much?”* No answer came, just icy silence and that awful, sneering look of hers. My heart aches with the unfairness of it all.
This morning, as usual, I was cleaning the house. I’d just hoovered and begun mopping the floors, determined to make everything shine. Then, without a word, Margaret, sitting in her armchair, deliberately sprinkled biscuit crumbs onto the freshly cleaned tiles. I froze, hardly believing my eyes. The spite in her actions was unmistakable.
“Mum, why did you do that? I saw you!” I barely kept my voice steady, fighting back tears.
She gave me that cold, dismissive glance and scoffed, *“It’s fine, clean it again. Won’t kill you.”*
Smugly, she returned to her tattered newspaper—the same one she’s read a hundred times. Swallowing the hurt, I picked up the brush and dustpan, but inside, I was seething. I escaped to the garden for air; digging in the earth usually calms me, but today even the fresh air couldn’t dull the sting of her cruelty.
Later, I confronted her again. “Why do you despise me so much? What have I ever done to you? I cook, clean, wash your clothes—everything! Our daughter, Sophie, helps you too! Why?”
Not a word in reply. Just silence, colder than the Yorkshire moors in January. I broke down then, my sobs choking me as I finished the laundry, tears dripping onto the freshly pressed linens. My life has become a relentless cycle of humiliation, and I don’t know how to escape it.
My husband, Sophie’s father, passed years ago, leaving me alone at thirty-two with an eight-year-old to raise. The day after his funeral, Margaret laid down her ultimatum: *“You’ll stay here. I won’t have the village gossiping that I threw you out.”*
I agreed—where else could I go? My sister’s place in Liverpool was already cramped with her two boys. Foolishly, I thought time might soften Margaret. Instead, she only grew crueller. In public, she plays the gracious elder, but at home, she’s relentless. *“Useless woman,”* she snaps. *“No man would look twice at you with a child in tow. Stay here, do as I say, and when I’m gone, the house is yours. But step out of line, and I’ll leave it to my niece—see how you manage then.”*
So I’ve endured, terrified of losing our home, scraping by on my wages while she spends her pension on fancy biscuits and expensive teas. At ninety-two, she’s in better health than I am.
Sophie finishes university soon, engaged to a lovely lad. They’ll have their own life, and I pray she’s never trapped like this. But for me? The years weigh heavy. I gave everything—for my daughter, for her—and in return? Only bitterness.
How do I find the strength to leave this wretched place?
