**Diary Entry – 24th June**
It’s been ages since I’ve written anything down, but today’s events forced me to put pen to paper. When my mother-in-law, Margaret, invited us to her countryside cottage for the weekend, I wasn’t exactly thrilled. Our relationship has always been… well, let’s just say polite but distant. She rarely calls, usually just to check in on the grandchildren, and honestly, I prefer it that way. But since retiring, Margaret suddenly decided she wanted to be “Grandmother of the Year” and insisted we visit. “Come for a barbecue, get some fresh air, relax!” she said. Fine. If my husband was keen and the kids were excited, why not?
David left work early, and we drove down to Surrey. The cottage was lovely—spacious, with the guest room upstairs. The evening started well enough. The barbecue was sizzling, the kids were playing, and the weather was perfect. David and his father had a few whiskeys and chatted while I put our youngest, Alfie, to bed. Our older boy, Oliver, stayed outside with his grandparents and some neighbours who’d popped over. A couple of hours later, I returned to find Margaret scowling. “Take him inside. He’s drained me completely! Running non-stop!”
The next morning, I got up early to make breakfast. Alfie stayed with me in the kitchen while Oliver slept in. When he woke, he went outside to kick a football around. Then Margaret burst in, furious. “Your son has no manners! He was thundering down the stairs, shouting—people are still asleep!” No one was asleep—almost nine in the morning—and Oliver wasn’t even running. But to her, if her grandson makes noise, I’ve failed as a mother.
Later, Oliver did run down the stairs while everyone was outside. “There! He’s at it again! No peace with them around!” she sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to her forehead. I bit my tongue, but inside, I was fuming. *Why invite us if you can’t stand your own grandchildren?*
Then Alfie started wailing—teething pain. Full-blown meltdown. Margaret recoiled as if electrocuted. “That’s it! I can’t take it! Leave today! One more day, and I’ll lose my mind!” she wailed like some tragic heroine. David tried to reason: “Mum, I’m still tired from yesterday—I can’t drive yet!” She immediately grabbed her breathalyser. Yes, really. She’d been testing his alcohol levels every half-hour, waiting for the moment she could kick us out.
By lunchtime, we were packing. The goodbyes were stiff. David still talks to his parents, but I don’t answer her calls anymore. And I won’t. Just last week, she rang—wanted us to spend Christmas in her “little paradise.” My reply? “No. Once was enough. Your hospitality is *more* than I can handle.”
