**Diary Entry**
Evelyn had just put her son to bed when her phone buzzed. *”I’ll be there soon.”* The sender? Margaret Whitmore—her mother-in-law. A *challenging* woman, to put it mildly. No warmth, no concern—just endless snide remarks, vanity, and a desperate need to appear younger. No one knew her real age—she guarded it fiercely, insisting she was “eighteen at heart.”
When I was pregnant, Margaret made it clear: I shouldn’t expect her help. Her gym routines, ballroom dancing, and endless dates left no room for rocking a newborn. Her words were sharp: *”I’ve done my time with nappies. Not a day more.”*
Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. There she stood—flamboyant dress, a hairstyle fit for a telly presenter, and stilettos loud enough to echo through the entire block. She strode in like she owned the place, kicked off her heels, and marched straight to the kitchen.
*”Evie, love, make us a cuppa, will you? I’ve been run ragged—work, errands, shopping… exhausted. Speaking of—remember that emerald dress you wore to the office party?”*
*”I do,”* I replied warily.
*”Hand it over. You’ve put on weight since the baby—no chance you’ll squeeze into it now.”*
I looked down. The jab stung. Yes, my body had changed—but hearing it from *her*, in that tone… It burned. Yet Margaret, as always, pressed on.
*”Aren’t you curious why I need it?”*
I stayed silent. She was forever chasing some new “knight”—younger, wealthier. Her life was one endless audition. No fling ever lasted more than a few months.
*”Met a new fellow,”* she announced proudly. *”Handsome, owns a flat in Chelsea. Probably a rake, though. I want you to message him on Facebook—see if he bites.”*
*”I won’t be part of that,”* I said firmly.
*”Oh? Fine. Keep your dress—use it as a rag, since it’ll never fit you again!”* With a scoff, she stormed out, slamming the door.
Of course, she complained to my husband, Henry. He listened, calm as ever. He knew his mother’s temper required *handling*. But I saw the irritation in his eyes.
*”I’ll talk to her,”* he murmured, pulling me close.
Days passed. For Henry’s birthday, friends gathered—but one mate couldn’t make it. Instead of well-wishes, Margaret called… to moan about another failed romance.
Then, unannounced, she showed up. Jam jar in hand, apologies on her lips.
*”Forgive me, Evie. I snapped. I’m just… tired. Being alone is hard. I keep searching, but it’s all disappointments. Take Geoffrey—we were going to move in together, but his son called. Said I’d ‘split the family.’ Turns out Geoffrey’s drowning in debt, *still married*, and I was just a distraction. He cut me off—like I never existed.”*
*”Maybe he got scared?”* I offered gently.
*”Or he’s spineless. His son threatened to clear his debts if he dropped me. *Poof*—gone. Probably thought I’d drag him to the registry office, then go after his will. Can you imagine?”*
As she lamented, I stayed quiet. Henry walked in. Over dinner, she launched into her usual act—woe is me, life’s so unfair. She wanted his pity, like always.
*”Mum, maybe stop forcing it? The right bloke’ll come,”* he said evenly.
*”Oh? So I should sit at home and mope?”*
*”No, but less drama? Take your grandson to the park. Life isn’t just flings.”*
*”Ah, I see. Turn me into free childcare? *Your* child, *your* problem!”*
*”Mum, you’re twisting things. Find a hobby—not another mess to clean up.”*
*”A *hobby*? I want *love*! And if I make mistakes, that’s *my* business! Tell your wife to sort herself out—she’s let herself go since the baby. No spark left. Think *that* keeps a marriage?”*
*”Enough! Leave Evelyn out of this! She *just* gave birth—she’ll bounce back. You could *support* her instead of tearing her down!”*
Margaret slammed the door on her way out. I stood frozen, a lump in my throat. But I didn’t speak. Just held Henry tight.
Because I knew: she’d never change. That’s just *her*. The only choice? Learn to live with it… or shut her out.
