**Diary Entry**
I couldn’t take my eyes off her all evening. My future daughter-in-law just doesn’t seem right for my son.
In a quiet little town outside Manchester, where cobbled streets hold the warmth of family traditions, my life at 54 feels shadowed by worry for my son’s future. My name is Margaret Whitmore, and a few days ago, my boy, William, brought his girlfriend home to meet me—his intended bride. I spent the whole dinner watching her, asking questions, and my heart sank. Honestly, I don’t think this girl, Isabelle, is the one for William. Every instinct in me screams this is a mistake, but how do I protect him without pushing him away?
William is my pride and joy—my only child, raised on my own after the divorce, pouring everything into him. He grew up kind, clever, hardworking, now a software developer with his own flat, dreaming of a family. At 27, he’s properly in love for the first time, and I was happy when he said, “Mum, you’ll adore Isabelle.” I welcomed her with an open heart, but something felt off from the start.
Isabelle arrived for supper. I’d laid the table properly—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, a treacle tart, all William’s favourites. I wanted it to feel warm, like home. But tension prickled the air the moment she walked in. Tall, with sharp makeup and designer clothes, she carried herself like she owned the place. Barely a greeting before she sat down, talking about herself without a thought for me.
I studied her all night. Asked about her job, her family, her plans. She’s a graphic designer, 25, lives alone, originally from Leeds. On paper, fine—but her answers were hollow. Bragging about clients and weekend trips to Barcelona, yet not a word about family or what matters. When I asked if she wanted children one day, she laughed. “Oh, not for ages—I’ve got my own life to live first.” William smiled, but my stomach twisted. My son wants a family. She wants… freedom.
Her manners only made it worse. She barely touched the roast, pushed the pudding around, left the tart untouched—“Watching my figure,” she said. I didn’t need praise, but her indifference stung. Spent half the night on her phone, texting, barely engaging when William tried to include her. He looked at her like she hung the moon, but her eyes were distant. Cold, self-centred—not ready for the life he wants.
I’ve hardly slept since. Isabelle isn’t the sort to build a home with him. William’s a quiet soul, loves cosy nights in, Sunday roasts, traditions. She’s all ambition, Instagram, living for herself. I’m terrified she’ll break his heart. Some friends say I’m overreacting; others agree my gut’s right. But I know my son. He needs someone who’ll stand beside him, not drag him into her world of late-night parties and climbing some corporate ladder.
William says she “inspires” him, makes him feel alive. But what I see? Him bending to her, changing—calling me less. She’s reshaping him already. What happens if they marry? She’ll pull him away from family, from everything he loves. Or worse—he’ll fade into her shadow, miserable but too smitten to see it.
I won’t let him repeat my mistakes. My marriage collapsed because I picked a man who was never really there. I can’t watch William tie himself to someone who—I fear—doesn’t truly love him. But how do I say it? I tried hinting: “She’s lovely, darling, but is she really the one?” He frowned. “Mum, you don’t know her.” His defence of her cut deep. Can’t he see what I see?
If I push too hard, I might lose him. He’s grown—his choice to make. But I’m his mother. My duty is to shield him. I’ll talk to Isabelle alone, sound her out. Or speak my fears gently, careful not to push him away. But what if he chooses her over me? The thought guts me.
This isn’t meddling—it’s love. Isabelle might be fine, but not for William. At 54, I want him happy, with a woman who’ll cherish him like I have. Let me be wrong, but I won’t stay silent while he walks into heartbreak.
I’m Margaret Whitmore, and I’ll fight for my son’s happiness—even if he never thanks me for it. Let Isabelle prove me wrong. But right now? My bones ache with knowing: she’s not the one.
