**Diary Entry – 12th October 2023**
I’m seventy-seven now, and I’ve lived to see the day when all I ask of my daughter-in-law, Emily, is a simple bowl of soup. Not long ago, I believed her duties were to keep the house tidy, cook, tend to the family—just as I did in my time. But life has moved on, and I, Margaret Whitmore, have come to accept that my expectations belong to the past. My son, James, and Emily took me in, and now I live under their roof, caught between feeling like a guest and a burden. It aches my heart, but I’m learning to face reality, though resentment still smoulders inside.
Once, I was mistress of a proper home. Up with the dawn, I’d roast joints, bake Victoria sponges, darn curtains, and raise James. My late husband, God rest him, worked at the factory, and I made sure he returned to warmth and order. I assumed that was how it ought to be—the woman keeping the hearth—and that Emily, in time, would take up the mantle. When James brought her home, I hoped she’d be like a daughter to me, that we’d bustle about the kitchen together, swapping recipes like in the old days. But it wasn’t to be.
Emily is a modern woman. Office job, always on her mobile, dresses straight out of a magazine, rarely cooks. When they married, I still had my flat, but two years ago, my health began to fail—weak legs, dizzy spells. James insisted I move in: *”Mum, we’ll manage. You’ll be better off with us.”* I agreed, sold my flat to lighten their load, and gave the money for their house extensions. I thought I’d help where I could. Instead, I found Emily didn’t want my help—or my old-fashioned notions.
From the start, I noticed she disliked me meddling in the kitchen. Once, I offered to make a shepherd’s pie, James’s favourite, but she just smiled and said, *”Margaret, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll order in—quicker that way.”* Order in? To me, food was care, not a tap on a screen. I tried tidying, but Emily would gently stop me: *”No need, we’ve a robot hoover.”* A robot? Where’s the soul in that? I held my tongue, but the fear of being useless gnawed at me. James only shrugged: *”Mum, let Emily handle it. Rest.”* Rest? At seventy-seven, rest isn’t idleness—it’s feeling needed.
What stings most is her attitude. I always thought a daughter-in-law ought to respect her mother-in-law, lend an ear, heed advice. But Emily does things her own way. She serves quinoa salads instead of proper roast dinners, like I taught. The house is spotless, but sterile—no cross-stitched linens, no scent of fresh bread. I hinted once: *”Emily, perhaps a treacle tart? James always loved it.”* She replied, *”Margaret, we’re cutting down on sugar these days.”* Cutting down? And what of the soul’s hunger?
Resentment festered. I thought her ungrateful, dismissive of my years. I confided in James: *”Son, your wife doesn’t keep a home—everything’s delivered, everything’s rushed. Is this what family is?”* He brushed me off: *”Mum, we’re fine. Don’t stir trouble.”* Fine for them, perhaps. To me, it’s like being shelved away, like an old lamp no one needs. My neighbour, hearing me fret, sighed: *”Margaret, times have changed. Daughters-in-law aren’t what they were.”* But I won’t blame the times. I want to be seen, not just fed and tucked away.
The other night, I couldn’t bear it. Emily was cooking—some fancy chicken with odd sauces. Sitting in my room, listening to her and James laugh, I felt a stranger in my own family. I went to the kitchen and said: *”Emily, would you make me a bowl of soup? Just plain, with potatoes, like I used to.”* She seemed surprised but nodded. *”Of course, Margaret. Tomorrow.”* And yesterday, she brought it—ordinary, warm, almost like mine. I ate it blinking back tears. Not for the taste, but because I realised: this is all I ask now. Not my ways, not my rules—just a bowl of soup.
I see now my expectations were from another world. Emily won’t be me, and perhaps that’s no bad thing. She works, she’s tired, and at my age, who am I to dictate how their home should run? But it hurts, not being needed as I once was. James loves me, I know, but his life is his own. And here I sit, wondering: where’s the woman who ran a household? All that’s left is an old lady asking for soup.
I’ve resolved not to fade. I’ll adapt—watch my dramas, take walks, ring old friends. Maybe I’ll ask Emily to show me how to order food on that phone of hers. Stranger things have happened. But I won’t be a burden. If they don’t see me as mother or grandmother, I’ll find my own purpose. For now, I’ll ask only for a bowl of soup—and perhaps a little of the warmth I miss so dearly.
