**Diary Entry – 15th July**
I could only watch in amazement as Lizzie prepared the salad—my daughter-in-law had turned my world upside down.
In a small town outside Manchester, where the scent of blooming roses mingles with the dust of summer lanes, my quiet life was suddenly upended. My name is Margaret Wilson, and at 62 years old, I never imagined a simple dinner would force me to question everything I believed in. That evening, Lizzie’s actions weren’t just a surprise—they were a shock, laying bare the distance between us.
### A New Face in the Family
When my son Thomas brought Lizzie home, I was hopeful. Young, bright-eyed, with a warm smile—she seemed the perfect match for my boy. They married three years ago, and since then, she’d become part of our family. I tried to be a good mother-in-law—helped with meals, shared my recipes, even looked after their little girl, Sophie, when they were busy. But from the start, I sensed something different about her—a quiet independence that both intrigued and unsettled me.
Lizzie never asked for advice, never fussed, never complained. She simply did things her own way, calmly and confidently. I put it down to youth, thinking she’d come around, learn to cherish my traditions. But last night proved how wrong I was, and that realisation cut deeper than I’d expected.
### An Unexpected Supper
Yesterday, Thomas and Lizzie invited me over for dinner. I arrived at six sharp, as agreed, with a freshly baked shepherd’s pie. Lizzie greeted me with a smile, but there was a glint in her eye—like she had something planned. We sat at the table, and I waited for her to compliment my cooking. Instead, she stood, opened the fridge, and pulled out a few simple ingredients: two boiled eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers, half an onion.
I watched in disbelief as she chopped them quickly, tossed them in a bowl with a splash of olive oil, and set the salad on the table. “Here you are, Margaret,” she said lightly. I was stunned. This thrown-together dish seemed so casual, so… careless. And my shepherd’s pie, which I’d spent hours making, went barely touched. Thomas dug into Lizzie’s salad with relish while I fought back a rising tide of hurt.
### A Blow to Tradition
That salad wasn’t just food—it was a symbol. I’d spent my life cooking for my family with love: Sunday roasts, biscuits, treacle puddings—everything to show them I cared. My mother taught me that food was love, tradition, connection. Lizzie had undone all that in one motion. Her careless salad, her confidence, her indifference to my efforts—it all screamed, “I don’t need your ways.” I felt replaced, as if another woman had taken my place in my son’s life.
Thomas, the boy I’d raised with so much love, didn’t even notice my distress. He praised Lizzie, laughed, and I sat there gripping my fork, holding back tears. Why didn’t he stand up for me? Why not say, “Mum, your pie is the best”? In that moment, I realised Lizzie hadn’t just joined our family—she was rewriting its rules, pushing me aside.
### The Ache of Realisation
I couldn’t sleep when I got home. Lizzie’s salad haunted me. I kept picturing her moving so easily around the kitchen, Thomas looking at her with admiration. Was I just an old woman with outdated habits now? Were my pies, my care, my love no longer wanted? I felt betrayed—not just by Lizzie, but by my son, who’d silently taken her side.
Deep down, I knew Lizzie meant no harm. She was just different—modern, free, unshackled by my traditions. Her salad wasn’t against me; it was for her own path. But the pain lingered. I’d given Thomas everything—now, it felt like I was losing him. Without meaning to, Lizzie had taken my place in his heart, and that tore me apart.
### Where Do We Go From Here?
Today, I’ve decided to talk to Thomas. I need to know if he still values what I do—or if I’ve become a burden. I’m dreading it, afraid he’ll say he prefers Lizzie’s quick salads to my careful baking. But I can’t stay silent. At 62, I want to feel needed, to know my family loves me for more than just my cooking.
This isn’t just about a salad. Lizzie’s simple dish was a sign of changes I wasn’t ready for. But my love for Thomas and Sophie is stronger than pride. If I must learn to make a salad to stay in their lives, then I will. After all, love adapts—even when traditions don’t.
