**Diary Entry – 12th March**
“Mum, open the door! Please, Mum!” My son’s fists hammered against the metal surface with such force I thought the hinges might give way. “I know you’re home! Your car’s still here—you haven’t gone anywhere!”
Margaret White sat stiffly in her armchair, back turned to the front door, clutching a cup of cold tea. Her hands trembled so violently the porcelain rattled against the saucer.
“Mum, what’s going on?” Henry’s voice grew more desperate. “The neighbours say you haven’t let anyone in for a week—not even Emily!”
At the mention of her daughter-in-law, Margaret flinched. Emily. His precious Emmy, for whom he’d do anything. Even what had happened last Thursday.
“Mum, I’ll call a locksmith!” Henry threatened. “We’ll break the lock!”
“Don’t you dare!” Margaret finally shouted, still refusing to face the door. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on me!”
“Mum, why? What’s wrong? Talk to me!”
She closed her eyes, struggling to collect herself. How could she explain what she’d overheard in the hospital corridor?
“Mum, please,” Henry’s voice softened, pleading. “We’re worried. Emily’s worried too.”
Emily was worried. Of course she was. Probably terrified her plans were unravelling.
“Go away, Henry. And don’t come back.”
“Mum, are you ill? Do you have a fever? Let me call a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor. I need you to leave me alone.”
Margaret stood and walked to the window. Henry stood in the courtyard, phone pressed to his ear. No doubt ringing his darling Emily, telling her his mother was being difficult again.
He looked up, spotted her, and waved, signalling he’d be back. Margaret stepped away and sank into her chair.
A minute later, another knock.
“Mum, it’s me and Emily. Please let us in.”
Margaret clenched her jaw. So he’d brought her. His wife, who’d so carefully plotted their future.
“Margaret,” Emily’s sweet voice floated through the wood, “it’s me. Please open up. Henry’s beside himself.”
What an actress. Even her voice shifted when it suited her.
“We brought groceries,” Emily continued. “Milk, bread, those ginger biscuits you love.”
Ginger biscuits. Margaret scoffed bitterly. Last month, Emily had discovered her weakness for them and now brought them constantly. Such a devoted daughter-in-law.
“Margaret, please say something,” Emily’s voice turned anxious. “We’re concerned.”
“Concerned,” Margaret repeated, too quietly for them to hear.
“Mum, I’m not leaving until you open this door!” Henry declared. “I’ll stand here all night if I have to!”
She knew he meant it. He’d always been stubborn. Once he set his mind to something, he saw it through.
“Fine,” she relented. “Just you. Alone.”
“What?” Henry faltered.
“Emily goes home. I’ll only speak to you.”
Whispers seeped through the door.
“Mum, why? Emily’s worried too.”
“Because I said so. Either you come in alone, or not at all.”
More whispering, then Emily’s voice:
“Alright, Margaret. I’ll go. Henry, ring me when you’ve sorted this.”
Margaret waited until Emily’s footsteps faded down the stairs, then slowly turned the key.
Henry burst in like a storm, wrapping her in a hug before inspecting her.
“Mum, you’ve lost weight! You’re pale—are you ill?”
“I’m not ill,” Margaret freed herself and moved to the kitchen. “Tea?”
“Please.” He sat at the table, watching her closely. “Tell me what’s going on. Why’ve you locked yourself away?”
She set the kettle on the hob and turned to him.
“Why should I open the door? What good’s ever come of it?”
“Mum, what’s that supposed to mean? You can’t stay shut in forever. You need groceries, doctor’s visits—”
“Mrs. Jenkins next door gets my shopping. I leave a list and the money. And I’m not seeing any doctors.”
“Why not?”
She poured boiling water into the cups, added sugar.
“Because last time, I heard something I wish I hadn’t.”
Henry frowned. “What did you hear?”
“Your wife. On the phone with her friend. Thought I wasn’t listening.”
“What did she say?”
Margaret sat across from him, holding his gaze. His eyes—just like his late father’s. Kind. Honest. Could this man really be capable of such a thing?
“She talked about selling my flat. Putting me in a care home. Spending the money.”
Henry went pale.
“Mum, you must’ve misunderstood. Emily would never—”
“I heard every word,” Margaret cut in. “She said, ‘Henry’s already agreed. Says his mum can’t live alone at her age. We’ll put her in a nice home, sell the flat. The money’s enough for our deposit.'”
“Mum, I never—”
“Don’t interrupt! She also said, ‘Thank God she’s gullible. Thinks we adore her. Really, she’s just in the way.'”
Henry’s head dropped. His shoulders tensed; his fists clenched.
“Mum, I swear, I never agreed to this. Emily must’ve been fantasising.”
“Fantasising?” Margaret gave a bitter laugh. “Then why’d she know the care home’s name? Its fees? That my flat’s worth half a million quid?”
“She had it valued?” Henry looked stunned.
“Seems so. Or d’you think she plucked that figure from thin air?”
He dragged his hands down his face.
“Mum, I truly didn’t know. Emily never mentioned this.”
“Or you weren’t listening? Maybe she’s been planting the idea slowly?”
Margaret stood and walked to the window. Children played in the courtyard—carefree, laughing.
“Henry, I’ve been thinking,” she said, back turned. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am in the way.”
“Mum, don’t say that!”
“What else should I say? I’m alone in a three-bed flat while you’re cramped in a one-bed. I’ve savings; you’ve debts. I’m not getting any younger—what if I fall?”
“If you’re lonely, move in with us! I’ve offered a dozen times!”
She turned. “And what did Emily say to that?”
A pause.
“She said we should wait till we found a bigger place.”
“There you are. And while you wait, I grow older. More of a burden.”
“You’re not a burden. You’re my mum.”
“Your mum. Her mother-in-law. A stranger, really.”
Margaret sat back down.
“Henry, tell me honestly. Do you want me in a care home?”
“No, Mum. Never.”
“Do you want to sell the flat?”
“No. It’s yours. Your home.”
“Then why’s your wife making plans?”
Henry stayed silent a long while. Finally, he whispered,
“I don’t know, Mum. Honestly, I don’t.”
“Do you want to find out?”
“Yes.”
“Then go home and ask her. Straight out—where’d she get these ideas?”
Henry nodded and stood.
“Mum… will you open the door after this?”
“I don’t know yet. Depends on what you learn.”
“And if she really planned it?”
Margaret held his gaze.
“Then I won’t open it again. Not to you. Not to her.”
“Mum, it’s not my fault!”
“Henry, you’re a grown man. You’ve a family. If your wife schemes behind your back, you’re a poor husband. If you knew and said nothing, you’re a poor son.”
“But Mum—”
“Go, Henry. Sort this out. I’ll wait.”
After he left, Margaret wandered through the quiet flat, pausing at the family photos.
There she was with Henry’s father on their wedding day. Young, radiant. Little Henry taking his first steps. His first day of school, clutching a too-big backpack. Graduation. His wedding.
In that photo, Emily had looked so sweet, so genuine. She’d hugged Margaret, called her Mum. Promised to cherish their family.
Margaret lifted the frame. When had Emily changed? When had she decided her mother-in-law wasn’t a gift, but a burden?
Or had she always been this way, hiding it well?
Margaret returned the photo and went to make dinner—one portion, as she had all week. As she peeled potatoes, she thought how quickly things had shifted.
A month ago, she’d delighted in their visits. Cooked their favourites, bought treats. Believed she had a wonderful family.
Now she sat barricadedMargaret turned the key in the lock one last time, knowing some doors—like trust—could never truly be opened again.
