**Diary Entry: “The Shame in the Bag”**
I was sorting through my clothes when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. On the doorstep stood my mother-in-law, Margaret, grinning broadly.
“Hello, dear! Just popped in for a cuppa,” she announced cheerfully.
“Come in,” I replied, forcing a polite smile, though I felt my shoulders tense. “Let me finish tidying this, and we’ll have tea.”
We moved to the living room. I continued folding my laundry while Margaret settled into the armchair, watching with pointed interest.
Her eyes flicked to a shopping bag near the chair. Peering inside, she gasped dramatically.
“Angela! What on earth is this disgrace?”
“More rags, I see!” she tutted, eyeing the other bags on the sofa.
“These are old purchases,” I said flatly, rolling my eyes. “Just clearing out the wardrobe.”
“Does my son know where you’re spending his money?” she sniffed.
“I have my own salary, thank you,” I shot back, folding faster to avoid further argument.
But Margaret pressed on. She yanked out one of the dresses, holding it up with disdain.
“You’d look like a tart in this,” she sneered.
“It’s still got the tag. Clearly, I’ve never worn it,” I said icily, trying to take it back.
“Thank heavens for that,” she muttered, thrusting it at me. “Aren’t you a bit old for such nonsense?”
“I’m twenty-nine, not sixty-nine,” I reminded her with a frosty smile.
“At your age, decent women wear proper dresses—not these flimsy things,” she huffed. “No wonder we’ve no grandchildren!”
“How is my wardrobe stopping us having children?” I snapped, irritation bubbling up.
“Simple! Dressing like that means you’re after a younger man,” she declared smugly.
I clenched my fists. “So married women should dress like nuns now?”
“It’s about dignity,” she lectured. “And as for your underthings—good grief!”
“You went through my lingerie?” I seethed.
“Don’t be absurd! I saw them in the laundry. No respectable woman wears such things, let alone a wife!” She thumped the armrest for emphasis.
“I’m young, and I’ll wear what I please,” I hissed.
“Oh, you *want* men staring, don’t you?” she cried theatrically.
“Believe what you like,” I sighed. “But I choose my own clothes.”
“Hopeless!” With that, she stormed out, slamming the door.
When my husband, James, got home, I unloaded everything.
“Mum mentioned you dress provocatively,” he said awkwardly. “Just ignore her. And—maybe skip the fishnets around her? They wind her up.”
“She hates *everything* I wear!” I exploded.
“She’ll forget it,” he dismissed, waving a hand.
But he was wrong.
A month later, Margaret returned with a new grievance. “You’re posting *photos* online! My friends saw—they’re appalled!”
“Jealous, more like,” I shrugged.
She huffed and left. I thought that was the end of it.
I was mistaken.
Six months later, James and I went on holiday, leaving Margaret a spare key “just in case.” We returned to a nightmare.
Half my wardrobe was gone.
“It was *her*!” I hissed, checking every room. “She had the key!”
James hesitated. “I’ll call her.”
But Margaret sobbed down the line, “Me? How could you accuse me?”
“We’re calling the police,” I said flatly.
Only then did she cave. “Fine! I took your scandalous rags and binned them! For your own good—to make you focus on family!”
James was livid. “Have you lost your mind? Now I’m replacing her entire wardrobe!”
“But—” she tried.
“Hand the keys back. And don’t come here again,” he snapped.
For her birthday, Margaret received three wilted roses—no lavish gift this year.
And that very day, I went shopping. James insisted: “Buy whatever you like, love. You’ve earned it.”
