**Diary Entry**
When Simon and I first met, we were both in our thirties—old enough to know better but young enough to rush in. We dated for a few months, and before long, we were at the registry office, signing the papers. No fuss, no grand wedding—just us, eager to start a family. I’d always wanted children, and Simon, never married before, was just as keen to be a father. We moved into my grandmother’s old flat, which I’d inherited, fixed the place up with new furniture, and settled into our little nest.
His mother, Margaret, had seemed perfectly civil the few times we’d met—once at a café, then again at the ceremony. Quiet, polite, didn’t interfere. I thought I’d lucked out with the mother-in-law. How wrong I was.
We didn’t waste time starting a family. I fell pregnant almost immediately, and those nine months were bliss. Simon doted on me—midnight cravings for clementines, avocado toast at dawn, whispering stories to our unborn son. Even Margaret kept her distance, save for the occasional gifts she’d send over with Simon: jars of jam, apples.
At first, I didn’t think much of it—just assumed her eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. Some of the jars were dusty, the jam crystallised, the apples a bit bruised. But then little Oliver arrived, and everything unravelled.
Margaret offered to stay with us for a while—to help with the baby and rent out her place for extra cash. Money was tight—Simon’s job had hit a rough patch, and we’d just taken out a loan for a car. It made sense at the time.
Only, she didn’t just visit. She moved in. With a vanload of… well, not belongings. Junk. Musty rags, chipped mugs, broken toys, piles of yellowed newspapers. Her hoard grew daily. Soon, I noticed food wrappers in the bin—things we’d never bought.
Then one day, I saw her coming back from the street with a grubby plastic bag from a supermarket. I peeked inside—and my blood ran cold. Rotten bananas, mouldy bread, yoghurts a week past their date. She was bringing it into our home. Our home, where our newborn son lived. To *feed* us!
I lost it. Demanded Simon talk to her. But he defended her. Said she’d grown up poor, that her own mother had scavenged just to keep them alive—leftovers from neighbours, food from bins.
“But we’re not starving!” I shouted. “We have money! We don’t need to eat *rubbish*! Do you realise how dangerous this is for Oliver?”
He just said, quietly, “She means well.”
Means well? That was it. I packed our things, took Oliver, and left for my parents’ in York—clean, quiet, and *safe*.
Now Simon has a choice: either his mother moves out, taking her hoard with her, or he can keep his flat—and lose us. I won’t raise my son in filth.
Looking back, I wonder—was I too harsh? Should I have been calmer, given her another chance? Or did I do right, putting my son first?
