**Monday, April 15th**
I never imagined I’d feel so trapped in a place I’m meant to call home. I’m Emily, 25, married to William, and our little daughter, Charlotte, is just three months old. We live in his mother’s house—Margaret Whitmore’s three-bedroom in a quiet town outside Manchester. It’s not temporary; we’ll be here at least until my maternity leave ends. The house is spacious enough, with a lovely kitchen and a garden, but instead of warmth, I feel like an intruder under Margaret’s rules while my own mother, Elizabeth, can’t even visit.
This isn’t our first home together. Before Charlotte, we rented a flat, but finances changed things. Now, though William has a legal share in this house, we keep to one room, careful not to impose. I nurse Charlotte, we co-sleep, and for the most part, it works. But the emotional weight is crushing. Margaret doesn’t lift a finger—dust settles where it pleases unless I wipe it away. Since Charlotte’s birth, I’ve scrubbed, laundered, and cooked alone. Margaret won’t step into the kitchen, and lately, she won’t even rinse a teacup. I bite my tongue, but resentment simmers. How hard is it to stack a plate in the dishwasher? I swallow my pride, but each ignored chore chips away at me.
Then came the announcement: Margaret plans to visit family in Yorkshire this autumn—her niece is getting married. Relief flooded me. Just us, like a proper family. That same day, Mum called from Bristol. She hasn’t met Charlotte yet and asked if she could visit. My heart soared—finally, a hug for my baby, a taste of home. But when I mentioned it to Margaret, her face darkened. “I won’t have strangers in my house while I’m gone!” *Strangers?* My own mother? They’re not close, but they met at our wedding five years ago. Back then, Mum stayed with us in our rented flat because Margaret had relatives over. Does that make her an outsider now?
Margaret spun it into conspiracy—accused us of plotting to “take over” her house. She’d booked her train tickets but now swore she’d cancel to “guard” the place. As if it’s Windsor Castle and not a semi-detached with peeling wallpaper. I called Mum in tears; she said she’d visit in summer instead, to keep the peace. True to her word, Margaret scrapped her trip. Now she watches me like a prison warden, as if I’d loot the silver given half a chance.
The injustice burns. I cook, clean, care for her granddaughter, yet I’m treated like a threat. William stays neutral, but his silence stings. Who’s right here? Margaret, clinging to her territory? Or me, just wanting my mother to hold her grandchild? Mum isn’t a stranger—she’s *family*. But to Margaret, I’m the interloper, every request a scheme. This house is legally partly ours, yet I’ve never felt more powerless. The worst part? I don’t know how to fix it without breaking us apart.
