**Diary Entry 12th October**
Its been two years since I married Emily, and from the very beginning, her mother, Margaret, has never warmed to me. Shes convinced her daughter couldve done better, and shes made it her mission to drive a wedge between us.
At first, I brushed off her jabs, but soon enough, her words grew sharper, more cutting. No matter how hard I triedcooking Sunday roasts, keeping the house spotlessit was never enough.
My wife knew what was happening, of course. Shed reassure me, saying, “Shell come around, love. Deep down, shes got a good heart.” But I wasnt so sure.
Then, one Sunday morning, Margaret barged into our room and drenched me with a bucket of ice-cold water. “Up with you, lazy sod!” she barked. I shot up, gasping, soaked to the bone and furious.
“Its half six!” I snapped, wiping water from my face. “Ive every right to sleep inits my only day off!”
She scoffed. “Rights? Under my roof, youll follow my rules!” That was it. The final straw.
Later, I sat Emily down. “I wont be treated like this,” I said, my voice steady. “Not by her, not by anyone. I need you to stand with me.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, taking my hand, she said, “Youre right. Its us first. Well find our own place.”
So we did. Packed our bags, left Manchester, and never looked back. Some lessons are hard-learned: family shouldnt mean suffering in silence. Sometimes, walking away is the bravest thing you can do.
