**Diary Entry**
Sometimes I think the hardest thing in a woman’s life isn’t pregnancy, chores, or even someone else’s illness. The worst part is fighting to be a *wife* when your mother-in-law steps in, ready to sacrifice everything for her “precious boy.” The boy, mind you, is thirty-three. Old enough to tell a cold from the apocalypse. But not to his mother.
My husband James fell ill—just a common cold. Runny nose, cough, mild fever. No Covid, his taste was fine, test negative, the GP diagnosed a simple virus. Hot drinks, fresh air, vitamins if needed. He wasn’t slacking—still did the shopping, washed up. I’m seven months along, so no heavy lifting for me. He kept working, too; his boss is a no-nonsense bloke who runs a tight ship, and skipping shifts could cost him the job. The pay’s modest but steady. With my maternity leave looming, every pound counts.
James and I followed the doctor’s advice: warm blanket, honey-lemon tea, even that old remedy with black radish and honey. I looked after him as best I could. Everything was fine until—out of exhaustion or sheer thoughtlessness—he mentioned being ill to his mum on the phone. The very woman we’d tried *not* to worry. An hour later, she was on the last evening bus to our flat in Manchester, even though we live clear across town. By midnight, she was at the door.
James had to let her in. Pregnant or not, I wasn’t trekking across the city at that hour. And there she was—our personal whirlwind—marching in and taking charge. First decree: “Keep the windows *shut*! A draft will finish him off!” Second: “Boil the kettle! I’ve brought herbs—they need steeping *now*!” (At 1 a.m., mind.) Third: “You, dear, go to the other room. You’re about to give birth; you can’t risk catching this.”
Just like that, I ceased to exist. A grown woman, a wife, a mother-to-be—erased. *Mum* was in charge now. *Mum* knew best.
She rang James’s boss and, despite his protests, declared her son *gravely* ill and unfit for work. “Find another job if you must, but health comes first!” she barked before hanging up. James sat there, pale, lost for words. I tried to reason with her—pointless.
Later, I brought the vitamins the GP recommended. Got a lecture on “chemical nonsense.” Bought apples—only to hear “foreign fruit’s full of poison.” Made James’s favourite soup—was scolded: “Only *chicken broth* helps with colds!” (Never mind he’s despised chicken since childhood—it turns his stomach.)
Then came her hourly bleach scrubs. Never mind the smell made James nauseous. Rules were rules—1930s-style. Buy the remedies, brew the herbs, *follow orders*, and stay out of it.
I snapped at dinner. Tried to say—gently, politely—”Mum, thank you, but maybe we could handle this *together*?” She cut me off: “You don’t understand a thing. Where’s the nearest homeopathy shop?”
I begged James to send her home. Softly, calmly. He stayed quiet. *Afraid* of her. Willing to endure. But I won’t. Not when I know what’s coming: once the baby’s here, she’ll take over the feeding, the curing, the *ruling*. My voice? Background noise.
And I’m afraid. Not just for myself. What if his boss *does* replace him over this “sick leave”? Then what? No income? Will *Mum* help? On her pension? I’m already pinching pennies to keep our baby safe.
Now I’m alone in the kitchen, listening to her bark orders through the door. This fight’s only just begun. But I won’t stay silent. Because this is *my* family. *My* child. *My* life. And I’ll be damned if I let her take that away.
**Lesson:** A mother’s love shouldn’t come at the cost of a wife’s dignity. Boundaries aren’t rude—they’re *necessary*.
