**Diary Entry**
Six years of scrimping and saving—almost denying ourselves every little luxury—finally paid off. David and I bought our own two-bedroom flat. Cozy, bright, though modestly finished, it was meant to be the start of our little family’s happiness. I was due any day now, the nursery ready, bags packed, just a final clean standing between us and parenthood.
From the beginning, I wanted our own space—no interference, especially from David’s mother. Margaret Holloway had always been… difficult. She loved dictating how we should live, breathe, even wash dishes. Once, I’d had enough and told her plainly I didn’t need her advice. She’d taken offence and vanished from our lives. For a while.
The day David drove me to the hospital, he had no idea what awaited him. The very next morning, his mother called to announce she was coming for a visit. He barely got a word in. Margaret arrived in full force, surveying our home with a critical eye: the hallway—”not bad,” the curtains—”ghastly,” the kitchen—”a glossy nightmare, now you’ll be polishing it daily!” She rifled through the fridge, insulting the frozen dumplings and declaring she’d make a proper stew tomorrow. David tried joking it off, but she just changed into her tracksuit and marched through the flat like a general inspecting troops.
That evening, he suggested taking her back home. “I’ll stay the night,” she declared. “You shouldn’t be alone—what if they discharge Sophie tomorrow?” And so she stayed. One night turned into two. Then three.
While David was at work, she rearranged drawers, reorganised the baby’s clothes, decided where the changing table should go, and made lists of what we “desperately needed.” David was losing his mind but too afraid to disappoint. Then came her grand announcement: she was staying for months—to help with the baby. Because we’d surely fail without her.
When I came home from the hospital, they all met me—my parents, David, and of course, beaming Margaret. I knew instantly something was off. New curtains. Furniture moved. The flat smelled like her lavender perfume. My parents left. Margaret didn’t. At my silent question, David muttered, “Mum’s staying a while. To help…”
I was exhausted, but what choice did I have? That evening, hell began. “You’re holding him wrong.” “That’s not how you swaddle.” “He’s crying because you don’t rock him properly.” I bit my tongue—until she took my son from my arms. That was it.
“Thank you, but we’ve got this,” I said quietly. “He’s my child. I’ll take care of him. Myself.”
She rolled her eyes, deeply offended. David started weakly protesting, but one look from me silenced him. I was calm. Firm. This was my home. My family.
Margaret packed her things. She never came back. David finally understood—I didn’t need orders. I needed support. And for the first time, I truly felt like this home was mine. No matter how long it had taken, I hadn’t let myself be broken.
