**Diary Entry – 12th August**
I doubt I’ll forget last holiday anytime soon—not because it was particularly memorable or enjoyable, but because the first part, visiting my mother-in-law, turned into a test of endurance. She lives in Coventry, while we’re just outside London, and since the wedding, we’d only seen each other once—when I was discharged from the maternity ward. My husband visited her briefly on her birthday each year, never staying the night. Now I understand why.
Her two-bed flat barely fit their trio: her, my husband’s stepfather, and his adult daughter from a previous marriage. For years, she insisted she’d *love* to host us—if only there were space. Yet every phone call was filled with how much she missed our little Emily, how she wished we lived closer. When my husband once suggested a hotel, she was outraged—called it “humiliating” and refused to let us stay “goodness knows where.”
Then, two years ago, the stepdaughter moved to London, freeing up a room, and suddenly, the invitations poured in. *“Now you can finally visit! I long to see little Emily—I’ll be over the moon!”* We juggled schedules, picked dates, and set off, expecting warmth. And credit where it’s due: the welcome *was* heartfelt. She fussed over Emily, asked a dozen questions, busied herself in the kitchen—but the joy lasted precisely two hours. Then, she switched.
At lunch, the critiques began: cutlery clattered too loudly, Emily asked for seconds too boldly, her knee nudged the upholstery. I wondered if she was unwell—a headache, perhaps—but no. She was perfectly fine. Just *controlling*.
By evening, I’d been schooled: we used water like lottery winners, left lights on needlessly, showered too long, overused the fridge, and—apparently—walking too heavily was *strictly forbidden*. I hadn’t realised we were such disruptive guests. Everything we did grated on her.
The next morning, I whispered to my husband: *Let’s escape.* We slipped out like thieves, wandered through a park, stopped at a café. Returning, we were met with, *“I’ve been *miserable* without Emily! I’d have loved a walk!”*—followed immediately by a sharp order to *wipe our shoes*, despite the drought outside. My husband obliged, but his faint frown earned a snap: *“A home must have standards!”*
Lunch was funeral-quiet. Even Emily sat still, sensing one word might unleash another lecture. I tried levity—suggested she take Emily out while we saw a film. The reply? *“Must *I* adjust to *you*? Have I nothing better to do?”*
I nearly choked. My husband’s face said it all. That evening, we agreed to leave early. *“We’re in her way,”* he muttered. We changed our train tickets, lingered another day out of courtesy. On hearing we’d go, she wailed, *“I’ve barely seen Emily!”* I didn’t remind her the effort to connect was *ours*, not hers.
The final act? On departure day, she drifted about like a tragic heroine, sighing as if we’d wrecked the place. The crime? She’d have to *wash our bedding.* I offered dry-cleaning or a new set. Her lips pursed. *“I’ll *manage*.”*
Goodbyes were stiff, formal. No tears. Then, as our train pulled away, she called, voice cracking: *“I miss you *dreadfully*… When will you visit again?”*
I breathed deep and said nothing. If we return, it won’t be soon. Maybe never.
