**Diary Entry**
It’s painfully clear that my daughter-in-law despises me—she didn’t even bother to hide it when she called yesterday, accusing me of trying to ruin her marriage to Michael.
I’m Margaret Edwards, just an ordinary sixty-year-old woman, a mother to my only son. I gave him everything—raised him alone after my husband walked out when Michael was barely two. Worked double shifts as a nurse at the local clinic, sacrificing sleep so he’d never go without: clean school uniforms, books, a hot meal on the table.
He grew up kind, thoughtful—the sort of man any mother would be proud of. And yet, it feels like he’s thrown it all away for a woman who doesn’t just disrespect me—she flaunts her hatred. Her name is Eleanor.
From the moment I met her, something felt off. Too loud, too arrogant, too sharp. When Michael first brought her round, I caught the challenge in her dark eyes, the way she carried herself—not a trace of politeness. But I told myself: *Give her a chance. He loves her.*
We went to a café to get acquainted, and it only got worse. She snapped at the waiter, sent back dessert because it wasn’t *photogenic enough*, spoke to staff like they were beneath her. And the way she dressed—a denim jumpsuit cut indecently low, as if she were heading to a nightclub, not meeting her future mother-in-law. I had to bite my tongue to keep from pulling Michael aside.
I chalked it up to nerves, but over the years, things only deteriorated. After the wedding, his calls became rare. I tried not to intrude, but I missed him. When I finally rang, her voice in the background was ice. Another time, she didn’t even bother to whisper—*Hang up. You’ve spoken to her long enough.*
I didn’t want to cause trouble, but eventually, I asked Michael what was going on. He sighed and explained—Eleanor had a difficult past. A young love, a pregnancy, betrayal. She lost the baby. Therapy, medication. He swears she’s better now, just *sensitive*. But I know better. It’s not sensitivity—it’s venom. Pure, unfiltered.
Days later, Eleanor called me herself. Screaming. Accusing me of poisoning Michael against her, meddling, trying to break them apart. Me—the woman who raised him alone, who gave up everything for him. Now I’m the villain?
Michael, as always, said nothing. Just the same tired line: *Mum, I’m a grown man. I have my own family now.* And what am I? Nothing? Just the woman who brought him into this world, who held him through every fever and heartbreak—now I don’t even deserve a phone call?
They live in her flat—a three-bed in Chelsea, freshly renovated. She made sure I knew *she* paid for it. I understand money talks, but is that really worth cutting a son from his mother’s life?
I don’t ask for anything. No handouts, no uninvited visits. I just wanted to still *matter* to him. To hear about his day, to hug him, to know I’m still his mum. Is that so wrong?
Sometimes I wonder if it’s not Michael she’s jealous of—but my place in his heart. Though what place? He speaks to her in a thousand tones, and to me—like a stranger.
But I still hope. Hope he’ll wake up one day and realise love for a mother isn’t betrayal. That their marriage can be strong without erasing me.
I’ve done my part. I raised him. Now I let go. But I’ll still wait—for the day he remembers. Calls. Holds me. Not out of duty. But because he loves me.
