**Diary Entry – 13th November**
Sometimes I think the hardest thing about being a woman isn’t pregnancy, or chores, or even someone else’s illness. No, the worst part is fighting for the right to be a wife when your mother-in-law shows up, ready to sacrifice everything for her “precious boy.” A boy, mind you, who’s thirty-three—old enough to tell a cold from the apocalypse. But not to his mother.
My husband Thomas came down with a cold. The usual sniffles, a cough, a slight fever. No COVID, taste intact, test negative—just a virus, according to the doctor. Hot drinks, fresh air, vitamins if he fancied. He didn’t slack—still popped to the shop, washed the dishes. I’m seven months along; heavy lifting’s off-limits. He didn’t skip work either—his boss was a hard-nosed private employer, and asking for too much time off was risky. The pay’s modest but steady, and with my maternity leave looming, every penny counts.
We followed the doctor’s advice—warm blankets, tea with honey, lemon and ginger. I looked after him as best I could. All was quiet until he made the mistake of mentioning it to his mum over the phone—the one we didn’t want to worry. Within an hour, she was on the last night bus from her side of Manchester, even though we live clear across the city. Midnight struck, and there she was at the door.
Thomas had to get up to let her in—no way I’m trekking across town at that hour in my state. And then she swept in like a storm, taking charge before her coat was off. First decree: “No opening windows! The draft will finish him off!” Second: “Boil the kettle! I’ve brought elderberry—needs steeping now!” Third: “You, dear, go to the other room. You’re about to give birth—you shouldn’t be near germs.”
Just like that, I ceased to exist. A grown woman, a wife, a soon-to-be mother—erased. Mum was in charge now. Mum knew best.
She rang Thomas’s boss and, over his protests, declared her son gravely ill and unfit for work. “Find another job—health comes first!” she snapped before hanging up. Thomas sat there, pale, speechless. I tried to reason with her—pointless.
I brought the vitamins the doctor recommended. Got a lecture about “chemical rubbish.” Bought some grapes—only to hear imported fruit was “full of poison.” Made Thomas’s favourite soup—scolded for it. “Only chicken broth cures colds!” Never mind he’s hated chicken since childhood—the smell turns his stomach.
Then came the hourly bleach scrubs, despite the fumes making him ill. Soviet-era wisdom, apparently. Her rules: buy medicines, brew concoctions, take orders—and stay out of it.
I’d had enough. At supper, I tried to speak—gently, politely—suggesting we work together since I cared for him too. She cut me off: “You don’t understand. Where’s the nearest homeopath?”
I asked Thomas to tell her to go home—softly, calmly. He stayed silent. He’s scared of her. Rather endure than protest. But I can’t. Not when the baby’s coming, and I see the pattern: once it’s born, she’ll diagnose, feed, dictate. My voice? Irrelevant.
I’m terrified. Not just for me. What if his boss replaces him over this leave? Then what? No income? Will Mummy help? On her pension? I’m already scrimping to keep our child safe.
Now I sit alone in the kitchen, listening to her bark orders through the door, realising—this battle’s only just begun. But I won’t stay quiet. Because this is *my* family. *My* child. *My* life. And I’ve every right to it.
**Lesson:** Love shouldn’t come with surrender. If you let someone else run your home, don’t be surprised when it stops feeling like yours.
