**Diary Entry – 3rd June**
I hardly recognise my own son anymore. That woman controls everything, and I’m afraid to even breathe a word—this is the pain of a mother who no longer knows her child.
The day Harry married, I barely knew his bride. They’d only met two weeks before, and my first impression was uneasy—thick makeup, a flashy dress, puffed-up lips. It didn’t speak of elegance, but of laziness. Of taking without giving.
Her parents showed up at the registry office, all fake politeness, rolling up in a luxury car that—as I later learned—was rented. A taxi, apparently, wasn’t grand enough. My husband and I exchanged glances. Clearly, generosity wasn’t in their nature. We paid for the entire wedding, by the way.
We’d moved to Manchester right before Harry was born. He grew up sensitive, tender-hearted—wrote poems, took small things to heart. If we’d stayed in the countryside, maybe he’d have toughened up, but city life left him vulnerable. By twenty-six, he’d only had three girlfriends, and even those I only pieced together from hushed phone calls. He was never one to open up.
He was ordinary, really—came home tipsy sometimes, reeked of cigarettes, though he quit later. After the wedding, they moved in with us. We gave them the master bedroom while we squeezed into the box room. Fine by me—if only they’d been happy. But there was no peace. Just shouting—no, not shouting. One shrill, demanding voice. Emily’s.
What her parents contributed, I’ve no idea. We gave them an envelope with a hefty sum. Relatives chipped in too, I found out later. Not a word of thanks.
Emily barely left the bedroom. Lived on takeaways. Worked at a nail salon but wouldn’t lift a finger at home. Housework? “Not her thing.” My son ate whatever he scraped together or finished our leftovers—head down, silent. It wasn’t love. It was servitude.
Then they moved out. Rented a flat near her salon. For the first time in months, “Her Majesty” deigned to have tea with us, even ate a slice of cake. I was stunned—since when was she off her diet? As she climbed into the car, I caught the flicker of disdain in her eyes. Or maybe I imagined it. But that feeling—like a blade between the ribs—lingered.
Yesterday, I visited. Emily, of course, was at work. Harry greeted me—drained, sluggish. Offered tea, muttering he’d just got home, no food in. Good thing I’d brought a shopping bag—at least now the fridge was full.
Turns out, he takes the bus to work now. The car’s Emily’s—“She needs it for clients, how’s she meant to take the Tube?” The salon’s a five-minute walk. But it’s “too hard” for her. So he walks—rain, frost, doesn’t matter. Because it suits *her*.
Then he let slip—he’s in debt. Multiple loans. One for a trip to Spain. Not for them. Just her. She was “exhausted,” so she flew off with a friend. I didn’t ask who. I saw him flinch at the question. Saw how he suffered in silence.
I came home and cried. Told my husband everything. He just waved a hand. “Knew this would happen.” But I can’t shrug it off. I’m his mother. I didn’t raise my son to become some woman’s shadow.
Now? I don’t dare speak up. He’s terrified Emily will explode. I’m terrified I’ll lose him completely. It’s agony. Helplessness. Where did I go wrong? Why didn’t I teach him to stand his ground? Why is my son so spineless?
The worst part? I can’t fix it. All I can do is watch my boy fade away and wait. Wait for him to realise this isn’t his life. Please, just… not too late.
