**Diary Entry – 14th March**
I never imagined my life would come to this. Yesterday, my husband, James, returned from visiting his mother, sighed heavily, and out of the blue suggested we get a paternity test for our two-year-old daughter. “Not for me, love,” he said quickly. “For Mum.”
Six months before our wedding, his mother wouldn’t stop warning him: “Don’t marry her, she’s not right for you!” I’m just an ordinary girl from the outskirts of Manchester—slender, tidy, dresses modestly. I’ve always valued self-respect in a relationship, so why on earth does Margaret think I’m some flighty, unfaithful type?
We’ve been married four years now, with a daughter. I’m on maternity leave, my days a blur of nappies and chores. The only people I speak to are other mums at the park. Yet Margaret treats me like a character in some trashy detective show, constantly spying, phoning unexpectedly, dropping by unannounced. At first, James and I laughed it off. But it’s exhausting. I’ve snapped at her more than once, yet she always comes back worse.
The first real row happened months after the wedding. Margaret turned up at my office without warning—just to “check” if I really worked there. Security at our business park usually stops unregistered visitors, but somehow, she slipped through. My colleague, Emily, later whispered that Margaret had grilled her: “How long has she worked here? Does she have any… special friends?” I was furious. That evening, I told James, “Your mother’s crossed a line. Talk to her, or I will. Next time, I’ll be the one calling the police!”
For a while, it worked. She’d ring in the evenings, bring homemade pies. I thought the storm had passed. I was wrong.
Then came the day I was home sick while pregnant. I’d turned off my phone, buried under blankets—until fists hammered at the door, the buzzer screeching nonstop. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Peering through the peephole—Margaret, wild-eyed, kicking the door. I called James in a panic. He rushed home, but she’d stood there the whole twenty minutes, waiting. We yelled at her. I threatened legal action if she ever did it again.
When our daughter was born, Margaret barely glanced at her. Later, we found out why. In James’s family, only boys had been born for generations. A girl, to Margaret, was proof of infidelity. “Absolutely deranged,” I told James. “She’s not coming near our child.”
And then, yesterday—the paternity test. “It’s not me, it’s Mum!” James insisted. “She won’t shut up about it.”
I laughed bitterly. “For *her*? She’ll never believe it. Three tests from three clinics, and she’ll still claim they’re faked.” My voice shook. “If you need this test, fine. But file for divorce first. I won’t live with a man who doesn’t trust me.”
The words hung between us, heavy as lead. Our marriage is cracking under the weight of his mother’s poison. I don’t know how much longer we can survive it.
