**Diary Entry**
I had just finished washing the breakfast dishes when my mother-in-law, Margaret, called. Little Oliver, six months old, was peacefully asleep in his pram on the balcony, giving me a rare moment of quiet.
“Ellen, love, Ive got a favour to ask,” she began, her voice warm but hesitant. “Id love to see my grandson. Could I come for a visit?”
There was no reason to suspect anything. Margaret lived up in Manchester, and we hardly ever saw her. Since Oliver was born, wed only spoken over the phone.
“Of course, Margaret,” I said. “You should see Oliverhes growing so fast.”
“How long could I stay? A week, maybe?”
“Yes, thats fine,” I agreed, generous but unsuspecting. “The sofa in the living room pulls outits quite comfortable.”
She brightened instantly. “Oh, thank you, darling! Ill be there in a couple of days. Ive already bought the train tickets, just in case.”
I smiled, then told my husband, James, about the upcoming visit.
“Alright, let her come,” he agreed. “Havent seen Mum in ages.”
Three days later, I got a text from Margaret: *”Arriving todayno need to meet me, Ill take a cab.”*
I prepped the sofa, stocked up on groceries, even bought a cake.
That evening, Margaret arrived with two large suitcases and a beaming smile. But behind her, lingering in the hallway, was a man.
“Ellen, meet Vincent,” she said cheerfully. “A dear friend of mine. He had business in London anyway, so we thought wed travel togetherkill two birds with one stone.”
I blinked at the strangergrey-haired, in a worn suit, clutching a battered suitcase.
“Hello,” I managed.
“Pleasure,” he said, offering a handshake. “Margarets told me so much about you.”
I led them to the living room, my mind racing. Our two-bed flat, rented for just the three of us, suddenly felt cramped. Five people now?
I pulled Margaret aside. “You never mentioned bringing someone.”
“Whats the harm?” she said, unfazed. “The sofas big enough. Vincents easygoing.”
I stood there, stunned. Then Vincent began inspecting the flat.
“Nice place. Decent neighbourhood, good transport links. Perfect for job hunting.”
“Job hunting?” I echoed.
“Aye,” he said. “No prospects up north. Thought Id try my luck here.”
My stomach dropped. So he wasnt just visiting.
“How long are you planning to stay?”
“Oh, however long it takes,” Margaret cut in. “Vincent needs time to find work.”
I forced a smile and retreated to the kitchen. James walked in moments later.
“Hey, hows it going? Mum here yet?”
“She is. And shes not alone.”
He froze. “What do you mean?”
“She brought a *friend*. Go say hello to Vincent.”
James marched into the living room, where Margaret was proudly showing Vincent family photos on her phone.
“Mum, you never said you were bringing a guest.”
“James, love!” She beamed. “Finally, youll meet Vincent. Vincent, this is my son.”
They shook hands. Vincent grinned. “Margarets always talking about you. Lovely family youve got.”
“Thanks,” James said flatly. “Mum, a word?”
They stepped into the kitchen. I pretended to cook but listened.
“Have you lost your mind? Bringing a stranger into our home?”
“James, dont shout. Vincents a good manweve been friends for months.”
“Fine, be friendsbut not under *our* roof!”
Margaret huffed. “So thats how it is. Cant even visit my own son.”
James sighed. “Its not about you. But you *shouldve* asked. Weve got a baby, a routinewe need peace.”
“Well be quiet,” she promised. “And its just temporary. Vincent needs time to settle.”
In the end, James relented. Kicking his own mother out wouldve been cruel, and I didnt push it.
The first few days were bearable. Margaret doted on Oliver; Vincent scoured job listings. But soon, cracks appeared.
Mornings became a queue for the bathroom as Vincent took ages shaving. Margaret cooked breakfasts no one asked for. Evenings were spent crowded in our bedroom while they commandeered the living room telly.
“Ellen, youve got a laptop, right?” Vincent asked one night. “Need to send out my CV.”
“We use it for work,” I said.
“Just for a bit. Its important.”
He planted himself there most days, phoning potential employers*loudly*.
“Yeah, decades of experience. Deputy foreman in Manchester. Age? Ive got years left in me!”
Oliver woke crying. I rocked him, shushing, while Vincent boomed on.
“Sorry, thats the grandson. Bit fussy, you know how it is.”
Margaret “helped” in her own way.
“Why pick him up straight away? A good cry clears the lungs.”
“Hes *hungry*.”
“Cant behe ate an hour ago. Must be teething.”
I bit my tongue.
By weeks end, patience wore thin. Vincent hadnt found work but remained undeterred. Margaret acted like she owned the place.
“Ellen, whys the fridge so empty?” she tutted. “You need proper groceries.”
“We buy what we eat.”
“Vincent needs hearty mealsjob huntings hard work!”
Our budget was already strained. Theyd been to the shops *once*.
Worse were Vincents calls.
“Dave, mate! Yeah, in London now. Staying at my girlfriends sons place. Two-bed in a posh bitlovely setup.”
I seethed. So we were housing and feeding him, and he bragged about it?
The breaking point came when Oliver fell illfeverish, restless. I was up all night while Vincent demanded quiet for his “important calls.”
“Sorry, but my sons *sick*,” I snapped.
“Employers on the line! This is *crucial*!”
James had had enough.
“Mum, how longs this going on?”
“James, be patient. Vincent *needs* this.”
“And if he *doesnt* find work? Lives here till retirement?”
Margaret gasped. “How *dare* you? Were *family*.”
“*Hes* not.” James was firm. “Youve got two days to leave.”
She cried. Vincent sulked. But James wouldnt budge. In two days, they were gone, back to Manchester.
As she left, Margaret muttered, “Shame I wont see my grandson for a while.”
The rift lingered. I vowed never to host *anyone* againnot in a rented flat with a baby. Hospitality has limits.
Was James right to draw the line? Or did he go too far? What would you have done? Drop your thoughts belowId love to hear them.
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