**Diary Entry – 27th March**
I never thought it would come to this. Yesterday, my husband, Daniel, came back from his mother’s place, let out this heavy sigh, and then—out of nowhere—suggested we do a paternity test for our two-year-old daughter. “Not for me, love,” he stammered. “For Mum.”
It’s been this way since before we even tied the knot. Six months before our wedding, his mother, Margaret, would nag him endlessly: *Don’t marry her, she’s not right for you! Too pretty—bound to be unfaithful!* Back then, we laughed it off. Daniel even joked he should’ve picked someone dull as dishwater just to keep her happy. But it’s not funny anymore. Not one bit.
I don’t think of myself as some stunning beauty. Just an ordinary girl from Reading—takes care of herself, same as most. Slim, well-kept, dresses modestly. I’ve always had standards when it comes to men, always respected myself. So why his mother decided I was some flighty tart remains a mystery. Yet she’s made my life a living nightmare.
We’ve been married four years, have a daughter together. I’m on maternity leave, my days a blur of nappies, laundry, and mashed peas. The only people I speak to are other mums at the playground. But Margaret won’t stop. She treats me like some character out of a cheap soap opera, convinced I’m cheating, watching my every move.
“She’s *always* spied on me,” I admitted to a friend, voice shaking. Calling to check up, dropping by unannounced—as if I were some teenager needing supervision. At first, I brushed it off, even joked about it with Daniel. But it *wears* you down. I’ve snapped at her more than once, proper rows. She’d go quiet for a bit, then start again like nothing happened.
The first big blow-up came a few months after the wedding. Margaret turned up at my office—no warning, no reason. Just wanted to *see* where I worked. Or so she claimed. More like checking whether I was actually there or off shagging some bloke.
“Dunno how security even let her in,” I muttered later. “Corporate building, authorised entry only. Nearly had a heart attack when the receptionist just *brought her over*.” And then Margaret had the nerve to glance around, eyeing my colleagues like they were suspects. My assistant, Amelia, told me afterwards she’d been grilled—“*Does she come in late? Who does she talk to?*”—as if she were some private investigator. I was livid. Stormed home, told Daniel, *“Sort your mother out, this isn’t normal.”*
For a while, things calmed down. Margaret stuck to evening calls, sent over pies like some doting nan. I let myself hope she’d finally backed off.
I was wrong.
Next disaster struck when I was pregnant but still working. Took a sick day, passed out cold—until the door nearly *splintered* from the pounding. “Thought it was a bloody emergency!” I gasped later. Peeked through the peephole—*Margaret*, wild-eyed, kicking the door and jabbing the bell. Refused to open it, rang Daniel in a panic. He tore home in twenty minutes. She just *stood there*, waiting.
We screamed at her. I threatened the police if she ever pulled that again. Another temporary truce.
When our daughter was born, Margaret barely looked at her. Later, I understood why. *She didn’t believe she was Daniel’s.* “Course not,” I scoffed bitterly. “Because I’m obviously out shagging randoms, right?” Her logic? Their family *only* has boys. A girl, in her mind, *proved* infidelity. I cut her off completely. Daniel still visits once a month—without us. Probably for the best. I’d never trust her near my child.
Then came the final blow. Daniel, shifting awkwardly, asking for a paternity test. *“Not for me—for Mum!”*
I laughed—sharp, humourless. “For *her*?” My hands trembled. “You know she’d *never* accept it. Three different clinics, she’d still claim we faked it. I won’t play her games.”
“It’s just a test,” he mumbled.
“*Why?*” I swallowed back tears. “I know who her father is. Do *you*? Fine. We’ll do it—right after the divorce papers.”
The words hung there, heavy as lead. The trust between us is crumbling, all because of a woman who sees shadows where there’s only light. Some days, it feels like we’re teetering on the edge—and I don’t know how to pull us back.
