**Diary Entry: Cleaning Up at My Future Mother-in-Law’s – And Still Falling Short**
It’s been a few years since Oliver and I started dating. Our relationship moved slowly but surely. He was considerate, attentive—always making sure I felt loved. When he proposed last month, I said yes without hesitation. We dreamed of our future together, planning every detail. Nothing, it seemed, could go wrong.
His parents were away on holiday while we prepared for the wedding, so they offered us their house to stay in. Oliver was thrilled—said it’d be like a trial run for living together. I agreed, though nerves fluttered in my chest. Their home wasn’t mine, we weren’t close, and the responsibility weighed on me. But love outweighed the unease.
At first, everything felt perfect. I threw myself into housework—cooking, laundry, tidying every corner. Oliver rarely lifted a finger, convinced his role was to provide while mine was to keep the house running. I didn’t argue. He earned well, and part of me even liked the idea of managing our home.
Then his parents returned.
I’d scrubbed the house spotless—floors, windows, every speck of dust wiped away. I’d baked a cake, made dinner—a proper welcome, or so I thought. But instead of thanks, I got a knife to the heart. Oliver hesitated before repeating his mother’s words: *You didn’t clean the loo, the bath’s a mess, the kitchen looks like a tornado hit it—oh, and the cake’s inedible.*
I froze. After all that effort, was there nothing right? Any other woman would’ve been grateful, but she’d clearly made up her mind about me long before.
After that, Oliver grew distant. No more eager wedding talk, no plans. Just… silence. And with it came fear. Could his mother’s opinion really undo everything?
What more must I do to be accepted? Maybe agreeing to marry so soon was a mistake. If even my hardest work couldn’t win her over, what awaits me after the wedding? Nitpicking? Humiliation? A battle for my own husband’s loyalty?
Now I regret playing house. I should’ve just been a polite guest—nothing more. Then there’d be no excuse for scorn.
Oliver once suggested living with his parents while we saved for a flat. But now? No. I won’t cross that threshold again. If there’s no respect, I won’t be there to receive their disapproval.
So here I stand: Do I fight for this man—for a family that may never welcome me—or walk away? Love shouldn’t start with surrender. Maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s them—a door shut before I even knocked.
