**Diary Entry**
For six years, Emma and I scrimped and saved, denying ourselves almost everything, just to buy our own place. Finally, we had it—a modest two-bedroom flat in Brighton, cozy and bright, even if the decor was basic. This was meant to be the start of our new life—happy, independent. Emma was days away from giving birth. The nursery was ready, bags packed, and only a last-minute tidy-up stood between us and parenthood.
Emma had always dreamed of a home of her own, free from parental oversight—especially her mother-in-law’s interference. Margaret was… difficult. She loved to dictate how we should live, breathe, even wash dishes. Once, Emma snapped and told her plainly she didn’t need constant advice. Margaret took offence and vanished from our lives. For a while.
When I drove Emma to the hospital, I had no idea what awaited me. The very next day, Margaret called, announcing her arrival. She swept in like royalty, scrutinising the flat—hallway (“not bad”), curtains (“dreadful”), kitchen (“a glossy nightmare, you’ll be polishing that forever!”). She rummaged through the fridge, insulting our frozen meals and declaring she’d make a roast the next day. I tried to laugh it off, but she marched off in her tracksuit to inspect the rest.
That evening, I suggested taking her home. “I’ll stay,” she said. “You shouldn’t be alone—Emma might come back tomorrow.” One night became two. Then three.
While I was at work, she rearranged everything—sorted clothes, decided where the changing table should go, made lists of what we “desperately needed.” I was going mad but couldn’t bring myself to disappoint her. Then she dropped the bombshell—she’d stay for months. “You’ll never manage alone.”
When Emma came home, she knew instantly. The curtains were different, furniture shifted, even the air smelled wrong. My parents left. Margaret didn’t. At Emma’s silent question, I mumbled, “Mum’s staying… to help.”
Exhausted from labour, Emma had no choice. By evening, the criticism began: “You’re holding him wrong,” “That’s not how you swaddle,” “He’s crying because you can’t soothe him properly.” Emma stayed quiet—until Margaret took the baby from her. Then something snapped.
“Thank you, but we’re fine,” she said softly. “This is my child. I’ll soothe him myself.”
Margaret gasped, wounded to her core. I stammered something weak, but Emma’s look silenced me. She was calm. Unshakable. This was her home. Her family.
Margaret left that night. She never returned. I finally understood—Emma didn’t need instructions. She needed support. And for the first time, she truly felt like the woman of the house. No matter how long it took, she refused to be broken. **Lesson learned: sometimes, kindness means knowing when to step back.**
