**Diary Entry 20th May**
I was putting away the freshly washed tea towelsnew ones, with tiny rosebuds embroidered along the edgeswhen my phone buzzed. Four missed calls from my friend Sophie from work. Probably nothing urgent, I thought, but it rang again.
“Laura, why arent you picking up?” Sophie blurted. “Did you know Margarets throwing a huge party for her 75th next Saturday?”
My hands stilled, the towel crumpling in my grip.
“What party?”
“Her birthday, of course! Emma rang meshe and Dave got an invite ages ago. Margarets booked a hall, sent out proper invitations, the works.”
The towel slipped from my fingers. Thirty-two years married to James, and Id never missed a single family celebration. But this timenothing.
“Maybe it got lost in the post?” I whispered, though I knew better.
“Lost? Emma said theres a seating plan for twenty. Everyones invitedJames brothers, their wives, even their old neighbour from down the street.”
I sank onto the kitchen stool. Memories crowded inthe weeks Id spent nursing Margaret after her hip surgery, the holiday days Id sacrificed so she could get her hearing aids, the weekends Id looked after the grandkids when no one else could.
“Listen,” Sophie went on, “its probably because of that trifle last Christmas. Remember how she went on about the custard?”
“Sophie, the trifle had nothing to do with it. Shes never really seen me as family.”
The front door clickedJames was home. I hurried off the call.
He walked in, shaking rain from his coat like a schoolboy. I studied the lines around his eyes, the way his hair had thinned over the years. Thirty-two years together. And stillan outsider.
“James, is your mum having a big do next Saturday?” I kept my voice steady.
He hesitated by the fridge, not turning.
“Yeah, just a small thing with close family.”
“Close family,” I repeated. “And Im not included?”
He rummaged in the fridge, avoiding my gaze. “Laura, dont make a fuss. You know how Mum is. Shes set in her ways.”
“Set in her ways?” My chest tightened. “Thirty-two years of biting my tongue, and its just her ways? This isnt quirks, James. This is cruelty.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Must we tally every little thing? Whos owed what?”
“Im not tallying!” My voice cracked. “I just want to belong. Is that too much to ask?”
James sighed and dropped into a chair. “Mum wants it quiet. Thats all.”
“Quiet? With twenty people? Even the neighbours invited!”
“How do you?”
“Does it matter?” I snatched up a tea towel, scrubbing at the spotless counter. “Thirty-two years, James. What did I do wrong?”
He reached for my hand, but I pulled away.
“Laura, you know shes never forgiven you for stealing me.”
“Stealing you?” I laughed sharply. “You were twenty-six when we met! Not six!”
I remembered the first time Id cooked for Margareta Victoria sponge from my grans recipe. Shed taken one bite and said, “We dont make it like that in *this* family.”
“All my life,” I said, “Ive tried to please her. And whats she done? Told everyone I spoiled Harry rotten. Said my parents raised me with no manners. And youve *never* stood up for me.”
“So what dyou want?” James snapped. “A row with my own mother over a party?”
“Not the party!” I nearly shouted. “The fact shes spent *decades* making me feel unwelcome, and youve let her!”
Outside, the rain pattered against the window, dreary and grey, just like the weight in my chest.
The next days passed in a blur. At work, I smiled mechanically. At home, silence. James tried to smooth things over, but every conversation just deepened the hurt.
“Honestly, Laura,” he said one evening over shepherds pie, “you know how upset she was last Christmas over that trifle. She thinks you did it on purpose.”
“On purpose?” I dropped my fork. “I went to three shops to find gluten-free custard because of her allergy!”
“But you *knew* she only likes Birds, and you bought Ambrosia.”
“Because theyd *sold out*!” My eyes stung. “You think Id waste half a Saturday deliberately getting the wrong thing?”
James fell silent. That silence said everything.
On Friday, I knocked on Harrys door. He was sprawled on his bed, glued to his phone.
“Your grans party is tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, not looking up. “Dad mentioned it.”
“Youre going?”
He finally glanced at me. “Gran asked me. Not gonna say no, am I?”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. Even my son didnt see the slight.
Saturday arrived. The house emptied. James and Harry left, arms full of flowers and Fortnums hampers. I wandered room to room, tracing the photo frames. In every one, Margaret stood slightly apart, lips pursed like shed bitten a lemon.
One snapshot caught my eyeHarrys wedding, five years back. Id worn navy silk; James, his best suit. The newlyweds beamed. Margaret looked like shed been force-fed vinegar.
I remembered how shed dragged Harry aside and shouted, loud enough for the room to hear, “At least *my* grandson married properlyunlike some.” And James had said nothing.
That evening, they returned, tipsy and cheerful, reeking of Margarets signature rosewater perfume.
“How was it?” I asked lightly.
“Brilliant!” James flopped onto the sofa. “Mum was chuffed. You shouldve seen her when” He stopped, catching my expression. “Sorry, love. Didnt think.”
Harry mumbled something about bed and vanished.
“Give your mum my regards,” I said.
“Regards?” James frowned. “Whats that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” I said slowly, “she remembered I exist?”
“Laura, dont”
“Dont *what*? Pretend this is fine? Your mother *excluded* me. Again. And you dont care.”
“Of course I care!” He stood abruptly. “But Im stuck in the middle. You two”
“Go on. Say it.”
“Youre both as bad as each other. Making mountains out of molehills.”
I laughed bitterly. “So my pains just a molehill?”
I turned and left, the bedroom door slamming behind me.
Ten days passed. Polite small talk. Harry went back to uni. Life resumed.
I stopped ringing Margaret on Sundays. Stopped asking after her arthritis. And instead of guilt, I felt relief. Like shrugging off a coat Id worn too long.
Then, on the eleventh day, my phone rang. “Margaret Hargreaves” flashed on the screen. I stared at it, heart pounding. Finally, I answered.
“Laura, dear,” she trilleda tone shed *never* used with me. “How *are* you?”
“Fine, thanks. You?”
“Oh, *dreadful*.” Her voice turned frail. “After the party, I took poorly. My blood pressures all over, my knees are agony. The doctor says I need a spa retreatsomewhere warm. James mentioned youve holiday savings?”
Ice slid down my spine. Now I understood.
“We were saving for Cornwall,” I said carefully.
“Darling,” she cooed, “you know I think of you as my own. Id never ask, but Im *desperate*”
“Your own?” Thirty-two years, and not once had she called me “daughter.” Now, suddenly, I was *darling*?
“Does James know youre asking?”
“Oh, dont trouble him!” Her voice turned anxious. “He fusses so. Just us girls, eh?”
Images flashedhanding over the money, cancelling our trip, Margaret bragging to her bridge club about how shed charmed “that common little wife” into paying.
“Margaret,” I said calmly, “how much do you need?”
“Oh, the retreats three thousand, but even half would”
“No,” I cut in. “Im asking how much more humiliation you want. How many more years Im supposed to beg for scraps of kindness?”
Silence. Then
“How *dare* you!” Her voice turned to steel. “Youd refuse a frail old woman?”
“Id refuse to be used. You didnt want me at your party. But now you need my money.”
“Ill tell
