Dear Diary,
I stood at the kitchen sink, my hands immersed in the chill of the tap water. Beyond the window the dusk was slowly draping its grey veil over our little culdesac in a suburb of Bristol. Laughter spilled from the sittingroom; Eleanors voice rose above the restclear, lilting, brimming with selfassurance. That particular laugh has haunted me for five long years.
I caught my own reflection in the glassa pallid face, eyes flushed, lips trembling. It wasnt frailty; it was a boundary.
Enough, I whispered.
The front door opened and Andrew slipped inside.
Blythe he murmured. Its not worth it. Dont let her inside.
Not worth it? I snapped back. Every time its the same, Andrew. Every time she humbles me, and you just stand there, silent.
I dont want a scene. You know hershe never changes.
I know, I retorted. But Im done staying quiet.
I wiped my hands dry, lifted my chin, and walked toward the living room. My heart hammered, yet fear was absent this time.
I entered. The laughter continued unabated. Eleanor sat in the centre, a glass of wine perched in her hand.
There she is, Blythe! she declared. Just the other day I was telling everyone how Andrew once leapt through a window to see you, then slipped and broke his leg!
I remember, I replied calmly. He was crying and I bandaged his knee. Funny that Im the one crying nowjust inside.
The chuckles died. A heavy silence settled.
What are you getting at? our motherinlaw asked, eyebrows arched.
That Ive endured five years of mockery, I said plainly. Five years of staying silent while she demeaned me in front of everyone.
Dont be like that, Eleanor tried to interject. Im just being honest!
No, I countered. Youre not honest. Youre cruel.
Everyone froze. Even Violet didnt dare laugh.
You call me cruel in my own home? Eleanors voice wavered.
Yes. Because to tear down a person your son loves is cruelty.
Andrew rose. For the first time in years his eyes held a serious gleam.
Mother, thats enough.
Eleanor looked at him as if he were a stranger.
And youre against me, Andrew?
Not against you, but for us. You think youre right, yet you cant see the damage you cause.
The motherinlaw fell silent, her fingers gripping the glass tightly.
I only wanted everything to be as it should be.
And I just want respect, I said. It doesnt have to be your recipe every time.
A thick hush hung over the room. No one dared move.
I grabbed my coat.
Were leaving.
Andrew nodded.
Right.
We stepped out into the cold night air, which was crisp yet gentle. I inhaled deeply, as if for the first time in years I could truly breathe.
I didnt realise how much it hurt you, Andrew whispered.
You do now, I replied. And I wont let our children see their mother belittled.
He wrapped his arms around my shoulders.
I wont allow that again.
A week later our house buzzed with the soft sounds of childrens laughter and the clatter of a stew simmering on the stove. For the first time in ages I felt peace. The phone rang; the screen flashed Eleanor. My heart lurched.
Hello?
Blythe the voice was tentative, almost apologetic. I want to apologise.
I fell silent.
Ive thought a lot this week. I see now how unfair Ive been. Perhaps I was scared of losing my son. In trying to protect that, I lost you.
Tears gathered in my eyes.
I dont want a war, I said. I just want our children to have a grandmother who loves them.
They will, Eleanor replied. If youll let me be that.
Come over tomorrow, I smiled. Ill bake a cake. Not for you to judge me, but for us to share.
Alright, she answered quietly. Ill bring something homemade. No Simpsons nonsense.
The next morning the house smelled of vanilla. Eleanor arrived with a small box tied with ribbon.
I made this myself, she said shyly.
Then it must be the most delicious thing in the world, I replied, smiling back.
We began whisking cream together. No tension, no barbed wordsjust two women quietly forgiving each other.
My mother always said love is shown through deeds, Eleanor murmured. I think Id forgotten that.
Its never too late to remember, I said, laying my hand over hers.
Andrew lingered in the doorway, watching them with a soft grin.
That evening we each sliced a slice of cakeone from my batter, one from hers. No comparisons, no criticism. The sweetness lay not in the frosting but in the forgiveness that finally settled over us.
