**Diary Entry**
In a quiet town nestled in the Yorkshire Dales, where old brick houses hold generations of whispered stories, my life—once filled with love for my daughter and grandchildren—has become a bitter disappointment. I, Margaret, gave up everything to be closer to my daughter and her twins, yet here I am, a stranger in my own home. My house has been taken over by my son-in-law’s nephew, while I, like some unpaid maid, am left on the outskirts of my own life.
When my daughter, Eleanor, had her twins, Grace and Charlotte, I knew she’d struggle. She and her husband, Thomas, lived in a rented flat in Manchester, and without a second thought, I left my little town to help. I had a lovely two-bedroom cottage that I’d rented out, but for Eleanor’s sake, I let it go and moved in with them. I wanted to be useful—cooking, cleaning, caring for the girls so Eleanor could catch her breath. It was my duty, my love.
But in Manchester, I faced the unexpected. Thomas had an older sister, Elizabeth, who never hesitated to meddle. Her son, 22-year-old Oliver, suddenly appeared in *my* cottage. Elizabeth had convinced Eleanor and Thomas that Oliver needed a place to stay “just for a while” until he found work in the city. I objected—it was *my* home, *my* property—but my daughter pleaded, “Mum, it’s only temporary, he’s family.” Reluctantly, I agreed, thinking I’d return once they no longer needed me.
Two years have passed. Grace and Charlotte are toddlers now, yet I’m still here, crammed into Eleanor’s tiny rented flat, sleeping on a creaky fold-out bed in the lounge. My days are an endless cycle of chores—cooking, laundry, cleaning, pushing the pram through dreary streets. Eleanor and Thomas say thank you, but I don’t feel like family—just unpaid help. Worst of all, my own cottage, my one sanctuary, is now Oliver’s.
Oliver doesn’t just live there. He’s moved his girlfriend, Sophie, in, and they act as if it’s theirs. The furniture I’d cared for all these years is scuffed, the walls smudged, and my belongings shoved into a dusty cupboard. I found out he hasn’t paid a penny toward the bills—*I’ve* been covering them from my pension, terrified of losing the place. When I visited to check on things, Oliver met me with a shrug: “Margaret, don’t fuss. We’re looking after it.” But his version of “looking after” is chaos, and it breaks my heart.
I tried talking to Eleanor. “It’s *my* home,” I begged. “Why does some lad I barely know get to live there while I’m squeezed onto a spare bed?” She wouldn’t meet my eye. “Mum, Elizabeth promised Oliver will move out soon. Just be patient—we can’t kick him out, he’s Thomas’s nephew.” Her words cut like a blade. I gave up everything for her and the girls, and now she defends *them* before me.
Thomas stays silent, dodging arguments. When I rang Elizabeth, she snapped, “Your place was empty, and Oliver needed somewhere. It’s not like you were using it!” The sheer nerve of it crushed me. I feel my home, my dignity, my life slipping away, and I’m powerless. At night, I cry, watching Grace and Charlotte sleep. I love them, but why must I be humiliated like this?
Mrs. Wilkins, my old neighbour, offered to help me hire a solicitor to reclaim the cottage. But I’m afraid. If I fight Oliver, Eleanor and Thomas might turn on me. They’ve already hinted that I’m “making things difficult.” I’m torn—do I stand up for myself, or risk losing my daughter? My heart screams at the injustice: I gave my all for my family, yet now there’s no room for me, even in my own home.
Every day, I mind the twins, cook their meals, wash their clothes—yet I’m invisible. Eleanor doesn’t see my exhaustion; Thomas looks away. Oliver and Sophie lounge in *my* cottage like they own it, while I, a woman of 60, sleep on a rickety bed. Their laughter over the phone when I remind them about the electric bill stings like mockery.
I don’t know how to go on. Forgive Eleanor for her indifference? Throw Oliver out and risk losing them all? Or swallow my pride and fade into the background, a shadow in the lives I sacrificed everything for? My love for Grace and Charlotte keeps me here, but resentment gnaws at me. I dreamed of being a grandmother, not a servant—yet life has played a cruel trick. My home, my peace, my very worth—all taken. And I don’t know if I have the strength to take them back.
