**Diary Entry, 12th October 2023**
Emma scrubbed the stubborn stains off the hob, her hands raw from the effort. Margaret, her mother-in-law, had boiled milk again and left it to burn—just like always. The mess was baked onto the enamel, another chore added to Emma’s endless list.
“Emma, love!” Margaret’s voice rang from the sitting room. “How much longer? I fancy a cuppa!”
Emma sighed, rinsed the sponge, and flicked the kettle on. Half past nine, she’d only just got in from work, and Margaret had been home all day. Couldn’t she manage a simple cup of tea?
“Coming, Margaret!” she called, forcing cheer into her voice.
James was glued to the telly in the next room, barely glancing up as Emma carried the tray past. Same as every evening. He’d come home, eat his supper, and park himself in front of the telly. The house, his mother, the chores—all of it fell to Emma.
“You forgot the sugar!” Margaret huffed when Emma set the tea down. “And no biscuits? What’s tea without biscuits?”
“Ran out yesterday,” Emma said quietly. “I’ll grab some tomorrow.”
“You see? No foresight! In my day, a proper housewife always kept track. I raised James alone, kept a tidy home, and still managed work. You lot only care about shopping and nattering on your phones.”
Emma bit her tongue. Arguing was pointless—Margaret always found fault. The soup was too salty, the dusting half-done, the telly too loud or too quiet. Sometimes Emma wondered if her mother-in-law invented grievances just to scold.
“And you left Lily at school again,” Margaret went on, sipping her tea. “The teacher rang, asking where you were. Embarrassing, really.”
“I asked you to fetch her—I had a meeting till seven,” Emma tried to explain.
“Am I the nanny? I’ve my own affairs. Women in my day worked *and* raised children without help.”
Emma retreated to the kitchen, her hands trembling as she washed up. Lily had waited in after-school club till half seven, crying because all the other children had gone home. Margaret had been home all day, watching telly, but couldn’t be bothered to fetch her granddaughter.
In the bedroom, a stack of Lily’s drawings lay on the desk. She brought something home every day—a painting, a craft—eager to show her mum. Then she’d ask, “Mum, why doesn’t Grandma look at me? I show her my pictures, and she turns away.”
How do you explain to a six-year-old that her grandmother sees her as a nuisance? That since they’d moved in with Margaret, the old woman complained daily—about the noise, about Lily touching things, about *everything*.
It hadn’t always been like this. When James first brought Emma home, Margaret had been warm, asking about her job, her family. Even said, “Lovely girl, James. Well-mannered. Marry her—it’s time.”
The wedding was small but happy. Margaret had helped with the food, flitting about, delighted. Emma thought she’d won the lottery with her in-laws—a second mother.
When Lily was born, Margaret doted on her at first. Her precious granddaughter! She helped with nappies, cooked soups, ironed baby clothes. Emma worked part-time, juggling home and child.
Then, slowly, things soured. First came nitpicks—a nappy on wrong, porridge too runny. Then harsher criticisms.
“You don’t know the first thing about children!” Margaret would snap. “James was feeding himself at Lily’s age, and yours can’t even hold a spoon right!”
“She’s barely fifteen months,” Emma would murmur.
“Exactly! Spoiled rotten! I raised James strictly, and he turned out fine.”
James never intervened. Home from work, tired, he’d eat, then zone out in front of the telly. If Margaret nagged, he’d shrug. “Mum, leave off. Emma does alright.”
Mostly, he stayed silent. When Emma begged him to talk to Margaret, he’d sigh. “Ignore her. She’s just set in her ways. She’ll come round.”
She never did. If anything, she grew worse—especially after they moved into her house. Their tiny flat wasn’t enough for a family, and Margaret had a proper two-bedder in a nice area.
“Move in,” she’d offered. “Save your pennies. Company for me, too.”
At first, it seemed perfect. Lily got her own room; no more rent. But soon, Emma realised the trap.
“My house, my rules,” Margaret reminded her at every turn. “Don’t like it? You’re free to leave.”
Leave to *where*? Renting cost too much; buying took years to save for. James waved off any talk of moving. “Why waste money? Mum’s right—this suits us.”
Suited *him*, maybe. He lived like a bachelor—Mum cooking, cleaning, organising. Only now, Emma did it all.
“Margaret, could you fetch bread today?” Emma asked once. “Lily’s poorly—I’d rather not take her out.”
“Your job, not mine,” Margaret sniffed. “I’ve done my share.”
Yet she found time daily to gossip with neighbour Mrs. Hodgkins for hours. But fetch Lily from school? Do the shopping? Not her problem.
School made it worse. Lily needed help with homework, attention. Margaret only griped.
“That child slams doors again! Gives me a headache!”
“She’s a *child*,” Emma defended.
“A child should be *quiet*! I taught James respect. Yours thumps about like an elephant!”
Emma shielded Lily as best she could, but the barbs stuck. Lily grew withdrawn, unsure. At Margaret’s jabs, she’d duck her head, hide behind Emma.
“Mum, why doesn’t Grandma love me?” she asked once.
Emma’s throat tightened. How do you explain that adults can be cruel? That age turns some bitter?
“She *does*,” Emma lied. “She’s just tired.”
But she knew the truth. Margaret didn’t love Lily—or her. She tolerated them because they cooked and cleaned. And because it kept James content.
Emma begged James to see how miserable she was. He never did.
“Don’t take it to heart. Mum’s kind—just likes a moan.”
“She called Lily *stupid* to my face! Says I’m a rotten mother!”
“She raised kids, worked in a nursery. Maybe she’s got a point?”
Emma realised then—James would never side with her. His mother was sacred. His wife? Expected to endure.
So she did. She swallowed rage, blinked back tears, forced smiles. Cooked, cleaned, cared for Margaret when she was ill, absorbed every criticism.
Then came the tipping point.
Emma was late—a report due by morning. She rang Margaret, begged her to fetch Lily.
“Can’t. Headache. Let her walk.”
“She’s *eight*!”
“In my day, five-year-olds walked alone. You’ve coddled her.”
Desperate, Emma rang neighbour Claire, who fetched Lily. Guilt gnawed at her—she couldn’t ask favours daily.
Home late, exhausted, she found Lily asleep at Claire’s, had to wake her, carry her back.
“Mum, why didn’t Grandma come? I waited.”
“Grandma wasn’t well,” Emma lied again.
Then, the final insult: Margaret sat in the kitchen with Mrs. Hodgkins, laughing over tea and cake.
“Emma, darling! Claire brought cake—divine!”
Too ill to fetch Lily, but not to entertain. Emma said nothing, put Lily to bed.
Morning was the same whirlwind—breakfast, school run, work reminders.
“Emma, what’s for lunch?” Margaret asked. “Doctor says no fried food.”
“I’ll make soup, steamed chicken.”
“Don’t forget my pills. And bread. And milk. You forgot last time.”
Emma nodded. Work, errands, cooking, cleaning—a ceaseless cycle. When had she last seen a film? Met friends?
The day blurred—stress at work, dashing to shops at lunch, racing home to start dinner.
“Emma! My pill! You didn’t leave it!”
“Sorry—here.”
“Sorry doesn’t help! My blood pressure’s up!”
Emma fled back to work, head pounding.
Evening: fetch Lily, stop for bread. Her daughter begged for ice cream.
“Mum, *please*? Everyone else gets some!”
“Next week, love. When I’m paid.”
Lily nodded, resigned. Too young to understand money, old enough to know not to push.
Home, Margaret was fuming.
“Where’ve you been? Dinner’s ruined!”
“Lily had club, then shopping—”
“Shopping! Always *something*! Am I meant to starve?”
Emma reheated soup. Margaret took a spoon
