22April 2025
Dear Diary,
Yesterday my mother, Eleanor Thompson, announced in the hallway that she was moving out tomorrow. Weve signed the papers, she whispered, and shell be here by the evening. The news hit me like a cold splash of rain.
The day before, while we were queuing at the corner shop on Oak Street, my neighbour Dorothy Brown stopped me to point at a display. Can you believe theyre asking £3 a kilo for tomatoes? she exclaimed. Its daylight robbery! I nodded, adjusting the battered leather satchel on my shoulder. It used to be possible to live on a pension, now youre barely getting by, I muttered, recalling how prices have surged since I left university.
Dorothy asked, Do you live alone? Doesnt your son help?
I answered, I live with my mother. Im often swamped at work, but I do bring home a decent wage. Still, Im rarely at home.
She sighed, My own children have all moved away; I only see my grandchildren on holidays.
We said our goodbyes, and Eleanor shuffled home, her arms heavy with shopping bags, her feet throbbing after a morning of errands. At sixtythree, the aches have become a constant companion.
The flat greeted us with a hush. James, my son, was out as usual, his programmers schedule keeping him at the office in the city centre. I unpacked the groceries, set the kettle on, and settled by the window with a mug of tea, watching the grey November sky over the culdesac.
Life for Eleanor had been a steady rhythm since my father passed fifteen years ago. She learned to manage on her own, raised me, sent me to university, and helped me stand on my own feet. Now, at thirtyfive, I work as a software developer for a large firm in Manchester, earning well enough to keep us afloat. Our threebedroom flat, a legacy from my late fathers stint at the old textile mill, is split: my bedroom, my mothers bedroom, and the living room we share. We drift together only at dinner, and even then not always.
Eleanor never complained. I try to be a good sonpaying bills, staying sober, avoiding any trouble. My love life, however, has been a series of fleeting romances, never anything serious. When I hinted at marriage, Eleanor would chuckle, Dont rush, mum, Ill find the right one when the time comes.
It seems I finally did. Over the past six months I started staying out later, returning home less often. When Eleanor asked, Can you introduce me to her? I simply replied, Soon, mum. When the moment is right.
The moment arrived without warning. I was washing up after dinner when the front door swung open. I had come home earlier than usual.
Mum, are you in the kitchen? I called, my voice a mix of excitement and nerves.
Yes, Im here! she shouted back.
I stepped into the doorway, hair a mess, eyes alight. Mum, I need to tell you something.
She perched on a chair, her hands trembling slightly.
We signed the papers yesterday, I blurted. Emma moves in tomorrow.
Her eyes widened. What? Youre joking?
No, Mum. Im serious.
Why didnt you tell me? she asked, voice shaking.
It just happened.
Spontaneously? she echoed, the word hanging in the air.
Im an adult, I make my own decisions.
Ive never even seen Emma!
Youll meet her tomorrow. Shes a wonderful person; youll like her.
Eleanor sat motionless, the shock evident in the way she clutched the arm of her chair. I tried to soften it. Please say something, Mum.
What should I say? Congratulations? How could you keep this from me?
Its not a warning, its a fact, I replied, frustration creeping in.
Fine, Im sorry, she whispered, rising and retreating to her bedroom, sinking onto the bed with her face in her hands. Tears streamed down, but she stifled the sobs.
The night was a blur of restless thoughts. Who was this Emma? Why the haste? Was she pregnant? By morning, I was already at work, leaving a note on the kitchen table: Mum, well be back this evening. Please have something ready for dinner. Love you.
Love is easy to say; caring for someones feelings is harder.
I set about cooking automaticallyborscht, meatballs, a simple saladmy hands moving while my mind raced. By evening the flat was spotless, though a lingering sense of unease sat heavy like a cat on the hearth.
Around eight oclock, the door opened. I stepped into the kitchen, wiping my hands on a towel, heart thudding as if it might leap out.
Mum, were home! I called.
In the hallway stood Emmatall, slender, blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, bright makeup, looking no older than twentysix. She wore a stylish leather jacket, designer jeans, and a gold chain that caught the light.
Hello, Mrs. Thompson, she said, extending a hand, a practiced smile on her lips.
Hello, I replied, shaking her cold hand.
She chirped, James told me youd made dinner. How lovely!
I forced a smile, Please, come in.
At the table Emma chatted nonstop about the wedding, about how wonderful I was, about how happy she felt. I ate my borscht in silence, nodding occasionally, the taste of broth suddenly bitter. None of it sat well.
Midmeal she asked, Mrs. Thompson, may I call you Mum?
Call me what you like, I answered curtly.
She giggled, I have no mother now; my own passed away long ago. How lucky I am to have such a motherinlaw!
Later, James showed Emma around the flat. Thatll be our bedroom, he said.
Where will Mum sleep? Emma asked, feigning innocence.
Shell have her own room, James replied.
I watched the exchange, my mouth tightening. Did she think Id relinquish my space?
That night, after theyd settled in their new bedroom, I lay in mine, hearing their muffled voices through the thin walls. Loneliness wrapped around me like a cold blanket.
The next morning I rose early, as always, to make breakfast. Emma appeared an hour later, yawning, stretching, and chirped, Good morning, Mum!
Good morning, I muttered.
She praised my hospitality, Youre so thoughtful, making breakfast.
I always do, I replied.
She complained, I dont like breakfast, just coffee.
James loves a hearty start, I said.
She brushed it off, Hell get used to it.
I flipped cottage cheese fritters, thinking she meant Id have to change his habits too.
James arrived, sat down, and I placed a plate of fritters before him, pouring tea.
Thanks, Mum, he said, smiling.
Emma grimaced, James, you really plan to eat that? So many calories!
Im used to it, he replied.
I turned away, the sting of her words cutting deeper than I let on.
Soon Emma began unpacking three massive suitcases, scattering boxes, filling my bedroom with her belongings.
Where will I keep my makeup? she asked, flustered.
I dont know, well find a spot.
Can we ask Mum to free a shelf in the bathroom?
I paused in the hallway, Theres no free space.
She retorted, Theres a whole cabinet!
Its full of my things, I said.
She pouted, Just move a few things.
I quietly rearranged my toiletries, shifted a bottle, and freed a single shelf. A wave of humiliation washed over me as I stepped back into my room, tears threatening to spill.
For a week Emma settled in, constantly rearranging furniture, suggesting moves.
Shall we shift the sofa? she proposed one afternoon.
Its been here twenty years, I replied.
Change is good, she said.
Not for me, I answered.
James tried to mediate, Mum, youre right, well keep it as is. The sofa was eventually moved, but I said nothing, retreating to my room.
Emma never cooked; she ate ready meals and left the dishes piled. I cleaned up after her, silently.
Mrs. Thompson, youre such a good housekeeper! she praised.
Learned from you, I replied, weary.
One evening I needed bread, so I asked Emma, Could you pick up a loaf, please?
She complained, Im tired, can James get it?
He was at work.
So youll go yourself, as always, she replied.
I grabbed my bag and trudged to the corner shop, the weight of the sack dragging at my arm, the climb up the stairs feeling like an ascent up a hill. I paused on the landing, breathing hard.
Returning home, Emma lounged on the sofa, unaware. I set the groceries down, my hands shaking.
At dinner, Emma suggested a party to celebrate our wedding.
Is that allowed? James asked.
Its my wish, she said, confidence in her tone.
I voiced my objection, I need peace, Im not feeling well.
She persisted, Just one night, well be quiet.
I refused.
The party went ahead on Saturday. Ten strangers, loud music, bottles clinking. I fled to my neighbour Dorothys house, sipping tea, venting.
Classic, Dorothy said, shaking her head. Young wives always try to push out the motherinlaw!
Its my flat, I retorted.
She urged me to stand my ground.
When I returned, the flat was a messempty bottles, cigarette butts, spilled wine. Emma and James slept through the chaos. I cleaned for three hours, scrubbing, polishing, until everything sparkled again.
Emma emerged at lunch, surprised, Youve cleaned everything? Thanks!
I answered curtly, Its my home.
She broached the subject of me moving elsewhere.
Why would you leave? Youre here.
Its my flat, but James is my son, so is yours, she argued.
I own the lease, I replied, the tension thick.
She pleaded, Please dont go. We need space.
I told her, I wont move. Ill stay while Im alive.
The evening ended with her storming out, tears in her eyes.
The next day James came home, looking guilty.
Mum, Ive thought about it. Youre right. We were wrong.
I asked, Is there any other way?
He said, You could rent a flat, Ill stay here.
Its my flat. You have nowhere else, I said.
He bowed his head, I didnt want to push you out, just wanted Emma to feel at home.
I sighed, Love is shown through actions, not words.
He left, and I spent the night alone, the house quiet once more.
By morning I called an estate agent. Id like to sell the flat, I told her.
She arranged a valuation the same day. The price was fair; I agreed to sell and purchase a modest onebedroom flat of my own.
At dinner that night I announced, Im selling the flat.
James and Emma stared, mouths forming What? in unison.
Ill buy a small place for myself. Youll each find your own space.
James turned pale.
Im losing my home! he cried.
Emma lunged, You cant!
I replied, Its mine to decide.
She sobbed, Were a family!
Family that wants me out, I retorted.
I told them Id move out tomorrow, leaving them to sort their own lives.
James knocked later, remorse evident.
Mum, Im sorry, he whispered.
Its too late, I replied, closing the door.
He stayed, his head bowed, and left.
That night I packed my belongings, the house echoing with the soft sounds of Emmas weeping and Jamess footsteps.
In the early hours, James returned, pleading, Mum, can we find another way?
I suggested, You rent elsewhere, Ill stay here.
He protested, We cant afford that!
I told him to save, Until you can.
He asked, What do we do now?
Take a flat, I answered.
He left, his shoulders slumped.
The next morning I confirmed the viewings with the agent. Emma entered the kitchen, eyes red, voice trembling.
So youre really selling? she asked.
Yes, I answered.
How will we survive?
Its your problem now.
She sobbed, I didnt mean to hurt you!
I turned away, the tears Id held for years finally breaking free.
Later, James sat across from me, eyes pleading.
I get it now. We were wrong.
Its not about blame, I said. Its about what we choose to do next.
He asked, Is there any other option?
I replied, You could move out, I stay put.
He stared, But this is my home.
I said, Its my home.
He closed his eyes, I never wanted to push you out.
I know, I said, the weight of years lifting a fraction.
He left, and I sat alone, the quiet settling like a blanket.
Weeks passed. Emma began helping around, learning to make a proper stew, asking me for tips. We shared recipes, and for the first time in months, there was a hint of warmth between us.
James started visiting more often, bringing groceries, checking on my health. Mum, can I get you anything? hed ask.
Id answer, Just a cup of tea, thank you.
Our relationships, fragile as they were, began to mend.
One evening Emma knocked on my bedroom door.
May I come in? she asked.
I nodded. She sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped.
Thank you for giving us a chance, she said.
Why? I asked.
I was selfish. I want to be better.
I admitted, I was harsh at first, too.
We held each others hands, a silent pact forming.
Months later, Emma announced, We might have a baby soon.
I smiled, Thatll make a lovely grandchild.
She beamed, Well be a proper family.
At dinner, James raised his glass, To you, Mum. For never giving up on us.
I raised mine, Youre my son. I could never abandon you.
Emma added, And Ill try to be the best daughterinlaw.
We all laughed, the sound genuine.
Now, as I write this entry, the house feels like a home again. The arguments, the tears, the sleepless nights have given way to a quiet understanding. I have learned that communication, patience, and a willingness to forgive are far more valuable than any piece of property.
Lesson: no matter how tangled family ties become, staying true to kindness and speaking openly can heal even the deepest wounds.
