**Diary Entry**
Life in our quiet little town by the Thames had always been peaceful, where neighbours knew each other by name, and everything moved at a gentle pace—until a trial came along that changed us forever. When my husband, Edward, and I first took out a mortgage on our flat, things seemed stable. But life has a habit of throwing surprises our way: Edward lost his job unexpectedly. I worked remotely as an accountant, but my wages barely covered food for us and our two little ones. Our savings dwindled fast, and keeping up with the mortgage and nursery fees became a struggle. Then my mother-in-law, Margaret, suggested we move into her spacious three-bedroom house and rent out our place. Reluctantly, we agreed.
Margaret didn’t live alone—her daughter, Lucy, and Lucy’s boyfriend occupied one room, while the third was given to us. Ours was tiny, barely fitting a double bed, the children’s small sofa, and a wardrobe. The first few days were quiet, but as soon as Edward left to hunt for work, the harassment began. Margaret and Lucy didn’t hold back—words like “sponger,” “freeloader,” and “useless” rained down on me like hailstones. I bit my tongue, but the sting of their cruelty lingered.
A freeloader? Me? When my parents sold their house, my share went towards our mortgage deposit. The verbal abuse was just the start. They ruined my makeup, poured out my shampoo, or “accidentally” dropped my clothes in the mud. Laundry had to be done by hand to “keep bills down,” and drying clothes meant balancing them on the radiator in our room since the wash line was in Margaret’s domain. Food was worse—we handed our grocery money to Margaret, yet the minute Edward left for his new job, every bite I took was met with a sneer. The nursery was my saving grace—at least the children were fed there. I avoided the kitchen until Edward came home.
Working remotely became torture. Lucy and her boyfriend blasted music just to spite me. Even with noise-cancelling headphones, their laughter and shouting seeped through. I begged Edward to talk to them, but he pleaded patience: “The probation pay is low, but things will improve.” He never saw what they were really like—around him, they were all sweetness, cooing over the children.
Then, one day, the truth came out. Edward fell ill and stayed home without telling anyone. After dropping the kids at nursery, I returned to another humiliation. Lucy’s boyfriend, a hulking brute named Steve, cornered me at the door. “Oi, go fetch me a beer—now!” he barked. When I refused, he hurled insults, saying I was nothing and belonged in the gutter. As I tried to slip past, he grabbed my wrist and snarled, “Do as you’re told, or you’ll spend the night on the stairs like a stray!” Just then, Margaret appeared, adding with a venomous smirk, “And take the bins out while you’re at it—might as well make yourself useful.”
Then our bedroom door flew open. Edward’s face was crimson with rage. Margaret scurried into the kitchen, and Steve went pale, pressing himself against the wall. Edward yanked him up by the collar and threw him out like rubbish. “One more word against my family,” he snapped, slamming the door, “and you’ll never see me again. Ever!” Margaret clutched her chest dramatically, but Edward just glared.
That same day, he contacted our tenants and demanded our flat back by month’s end. The moment they left, we moved home with relief. But Edward wasn’t done. To sever ties completely, he sold his share of the three-bedroom house to a family from up north. Living in such cramped quarters became unbearable for Margaret and Lucy. Eventually, they swapped their share for a dingy one-bed flat on the outskirts of town.
Cursing us, Margaret cut Edward out of her life. No calls, no letters—as if he never existed. But to my surprise, Edward just sighed in relief. “They poisoned everything,” he said. “Now we’re finally free.” And he was right—our home is our sanctuary again, and the shadows of the past are gone.
