Sunday, 13thMay
Dear diary,
I never imagined a quiet Sunday in our little flat offCamden would turn into a battlefield of loyalties. Margaretmy motherinlawstormed into the kitchen, waving a sheet of bloodtest results shed ripped from my bag while I was chopping carrots for a salad. Good heavens, Blythe, what are you doing, love? Youre tearing this family apart! she shrieked, eyes wide. All my sons life he has turned to you for advice. And now you block him from his own mother as if I were some enemy!
I turned to her, feeling that odd, familiar calm that settles over me when everything inside is boiling. Thats exactly what happened in that instant.
Until that lunch, my life had been relatively tranquilwell, as tranquil as it can be when your motherinlaw believes she has the right to dictate the affairs of her thirtyfiveyearold son. I rose at seven, brewed a mug of coffee, and nudged Mark with a kiss on the cheek. He would smile, eyes still halfclosed, and pull me close. Wed have breakfast together, dash off to work, and in the evenings wed cook, watch a bit of telly, and chat about nothing and everything. It was the ordinary rhythm of a young couple, and we were happy.
Of course, Margaret stopped by almost every week, sometimes more often.
Margaret, could you at least give us a headsup before you turn up? I asked halfayear ago.
She balked, replying with the fury of someone who thinks shes entitled to a sons time at any hour. Since when should a mother announce her visits? I gave birth to him; I can appear whenever I wish!
I kept quiet then, and the pattern repeated. Each time I stayed silent, hoping it would end, until I discovered she had taken a spare key and entered our flat while we were out, rearranging our cupboards as she saw fit. My patience finally snapped.
Mark, we need to talk about your mother, I said one night. He tensed immediately; hed known this conversation was inevitable.
Your mother keeps crossing boundaries, I continued. She drops by unannounced, rummages through our things, and constantly criticises everything I do. And shes always asking for money.
What money? Mark raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.
I realized then that he truly didnt know. Margaret often hinted that her pension was insufficient, that medicines were pricey, that the fridge was on its last legsalways when Mark wasnt in the room.
She keeps complaining about being short of cash, I told him. She subtly expects us to help, yet you already give her a regular allowance each month.
Mark flushed. Well I do give a little, he stammered. Shes my mum.
A little? I pressed. I handle our household budget, and I see every expense. £150 a month isnt littlethats a quarter of your salary!
After that talk we set new ground rules. Financial help for Margaret would be a fixed amount, agreed in advance. She would give at least a days notice before visiting, and our personal belongings would remain offlimits without permission.
Margaret took the new rules as a personal affront.
This is all because of your wife! she shouted at Mark on the phone. Shes turning you against your own mother! I can see how shes manipulating you!
For the first time Mark stood his ground and told his mother no. She never forgave himor me.
The next few months felt like a siege. Margaret still attended the obligatory Sunday lunchesMark couldnt abandon that family tradition. She sat at the table with a stonecold expression, peppering me with snide remarks about my cooking, my appearance, my job. I kept my smile, because theres a strange satisfaction in not feeding a provokers fire; it frustrates them far more than any retort could.
Now she stood before me, the test results clutched in her handsmy recent blood work taken before we decided to start trying for a baby.
Are you really planning to have a child? she sneered, eyebrows arching. You were only married a year ago! How can you think of a baby when you barely have a proper flatjust a tiny rented studio! Why am I the last to know? Why werent we consulted?
I took the sheet, placed it deliberately back into my bag, and spoke calmly.
Margaret, first of all, those are private medical documents belonging to Mark and me, and you had no right to look at them. Secondly, the decision to have a child is ours aloneours, not yours. Thirdly, we are under no obligation to seek your advice on such matters. Its simply not your business.
Her face turned a ghastly shade of cabbage.
Not my business? she erupted. Im his mother! I have a right to know! I have a right to be involved in my sons life!
Knowing, perhaps, I replied. Involvement, no.
She whirled to Mark, who had been silent at the table. Mark, do you hear what shes saying? Shes trying to drive a wedge between us! Chooseher or me!
It was an ultimatum. Id known it would come to this; Margaret had always counted on such pressure to win. Shed succeeded beforeMark had once broken off a first relationship and called off a second wedding because she disapproved.
Mark rose, walked over, and wrapped his arms around me.
Mum, I love you, he said gently. Youll always be my mother. But Blythe is my wife, my family. Please try to accept that. If you force me to choose, I choose her.
Silence fell. Margaret stared at her son as if betrayed, then turned her icy gaze on me, her eyes full of hatred that made my stomach churn.
Well then, she said finally, voice cold. Now I see who you really are, son, and who your wife is. Live as you wish. But when she abandons youas I predictdont come knocking on my door for sympathy!
She snatched her handbag and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
Mark and I stood together in the empty kitchen. The Sunday lunch remained unprepared, but it no longer mattered. For the first time in our marriage I felt we truly were a familynot me plus his mother, but us, together.
Do you regret it? I asked, looking at him.
Not in the slightest, he replied, planting a kiss on my forehead. Its taken far too long. Im sorry for dragging this out.
Three months have passed since that day. Margaret hasnt called or visited. At first Mark tried to reach out, but she never answered. Eventually he let it go.
Im writing this now to remind myself that setting boundaries, however painful, can finally bring the peace we both needed.
Blythe.
