**Diary Entry – 12th October**
I’ve always been one of those women who live entirely for their children. From the sleepless nights when my son was a baby to the constant worry as he grew into a teenager, I gave everything—time, energy, even bits of myself—all out of love. After all, Oliver is my only child. When he turned 31, I thought, maybe it’s time to think about myself a little.
Oliver married eight years ago. We and his in-laws paid for the wedding, and as a gift, I handed them an envelope of cash—let them decide how to spend it. At first, they rented a nice two-bed flat in Chelsea. I admired their independence; not every young couple can manage on their own.
But a few years in, money troubles started. Oliver came to me for help. I had a steady income from a flat I inherited from my ex-husband’s father, rented to a quiet, reliable man who always paid on time. Still, when I heard my daughter-in-law was expecting, I thought, *I have to step in.*
I ended the tenancy and handed the flat to Oliver and his wife. I told myself, *I’ll cut back—skip the salmon and prawns for a while. It’s worth it.* Suddenly, my daughter-in-law was sweet as honey—inviting me over, asking my opinion.
Three years passed. Three years they lived there, not a penny in rent. I couldn’t bring myself to ask them to leave. Good relationships are like traps—hard to be the villain who demands what’s fair. But I noticed the toll: exhaustion, weight creeping on, eating whatever’s cheap. All for them.
Then, one day, I gathered my courage. Calmly, without accusation, I asked Oliver, “Don’t you think it’s time to look for your own place? The commute’s long, and there are plenty of flats closer to work.” He joked it off. His wife added, “The little one’s still small—let us stay a while longer.”
I tried to explain—being a mother doesn’t mean sacrificing yourself forever. They could find a place nearer the nursery. But the conversation soured. They acted hurt. And I? I felt guilty. Guilty for wanting to live decently.
A week later, the in-laws invited me to a relative’s birthday—someone I’d supposedly met at the wedding. I hesitated, but they insisted: *No gift needed, just come.* So I went.
What a mistake. The moment I walked in, all eyes were on me. The evening became a trial—my “cruelty” the main topic. *How could you take their home away? What matters more—money or your son and grandson’s comfort?* Ten voices, all judging. Not one asked how I’d been managing.
In the end, they “settled” it: Oliver’s family would stay, paying a token rent—half the market rate, if that. I’d remain the landlord, with rights to demand repairs and timely payments. Fair? Maybe. But it wasn’t my choice. I’m just tired.
I know this “agreement” won’t end well. Soon, there’ll be rows, resentment. But what choice do I have? From now on, if something breaks, they fix it. I’ll try to keep the peace, but if they won’t meet me halfway—well, that’s the price of their choice. I wanted it to be different. But no one listened.
**Lesson learnt:** Love shouldn’t mean vanishing in plain sight. Next time, I’ll tread carefully—even with family.
