31October2025
Dear Diary,
It has been a tangled few decades in our little cottage on the outskirts of York, and I feel compelled to set down the relentless parade of events that have befallen our family, for perhaps by recording them I might make sense of the chaos that has become our daily bread.
It all began, in my mind, with the verdict of my eldest daughter, Mabel. She, ever the stubborn one with a mouth full of complaints about any suitor, never married. By the time she turned thirty she had hardened into a bitter, almost militant, misogynista living ulcer, a husbandhater in the flesh.
Patience, she snapped at me, the way she does when she thinks Im meddling. My younger daughter, Emmaroundcheeked and always gigglinggrinned approvingly. I kept my mouth shut, but the scowl on my face told her that even the new daughterinlaw didnt sit well with me. And why should she? Our only son, Tom, the sturdy rock we had hoped would carry on the family name, went off to the Army, came back with a bride who seemed to have the pedigree of a workhouse orphan. No family, no dowry, no £0 in the bank. Whether she grew up in a childrens home or was merely a distant relative of some distant relative, I never learned.
Tom, ever the optimist, would joke, Dont worry, Mother, well make our own fortune. And I would mutter to myself, Who have you brought into this home? Perhaps shes a thief, a conartistthere are plenty of those these days.
Since that illfated arrival, Vera Nicholswhom we bitterly nicknamed Millyhas never spent a full nights sleep. She drifts in and out of slumber, ever wary of the next trick the new relative might play, waiting for her to start rummaging through the cupboards. The girls whisper, Mother, perhaps you should hide the valuable thingsfurs, jewelleryjust in case! As if we might wake up one morning to find our household in tatters.
My dear Tom, you would have thought the house was cursedwhat a month it took for the pigs to finish the feed! Who did you bring home? Id ask, Where were you looking, you scamp? The accusations flew like startled birds.
Nonetheless, life pressed on. We learned to accommodate Milly. The house is spacious, the garden stretches over thirty acres, we keep three piglets and a flock of chickensmore than enough to keep any farmer busy. The work never ends, but Milly never complains. She cooks, cleans, tends the pigs, and triesfutilely, I suspectto win my favour. Yet if a mothers heart is not inclined, no amount of gold can smooth the cracks. The unwanted daughterinlaw, in a fit of spite, declared on her first day:
Call me by my full name, Vera Nichols. Thats how it will be. I have my own daughters; you will never be as dear as they are.
Since then I have addressed her as Vera Nichols, and never called her a daughterinlaw again. I would only speak when necessary: We must do this, that was all. I did not indulge her, but I also ensured that no other relatives could step on her heels. Every petty dispute was tucked away, and occasionally I had to keep my own daughters from quarrelingnot out of pity for Milly, but to keep order in the house. After all, the girl proved diligent, never lazy, always grabbing at any task. My coldness toward her slowly thawed.
Perhaps life would have steadied, had Tom not taken to the bottle.
What man can endure a wife who rattles him from dawn till dusk, demanding Whom did you marry? Whom did you marry again?? Mabel introduced him to a friend, and the whole thing spiralled. The sisters celebrated, thinking perhaps Milly would finally depart. Mother kept silent, and Milly pretended nothing had happened, her eyes dull, her spirit wilted.
Then, out of the blue, two shocking tidings: Milly was pregnant, and Tom was filing for divorce.
This will not happen, I told Tom. I never set you up with her.
But once the wedding is sealed, we must live with it. Youll be a father soon, I warned, If you break this family, Ill drive you out, and I wont even speak to you again. Sarah will stay here.
For the first time ever I called Milly by her name. The sisters were stunned. Tom, redfaced, retorted, Im a man; I decide. I crossed my arms and laughed, What kind of man are you? Youre still in your trousers! When you raise a child, give him an education, turn him into a proper gentleman, then maybe you can claim the title of manhood.
I have never been one to hide my words, and Tom never ceased to listen.
If he wishes to leave, let him go. Sarah stayed, and after the appropriate time she gave birth to a little girl, whom we called Vicky. When I learned the name, I said nothing, but I could see the glimmer of joy in my own heart.
From the outside, nothing changed in the house, except that Tom lost his way home, feeling alienated. I, too, worried, though I showed no signs. I fell in love with my granddaughter, doting on her, buying sweets, and spoiling her. As for Sarah, she seemed never to forgive that she lost a son because of her, yet she never uttered a word against Milly.
Ten years passed. The sisters married, and the three of usmyself, Sarah, and Vickyremained in the large house. Tom enlisted again and headed north with his new wife. An elderly retired soldier, a serious gentleman, began visiting Sarah, offering help. He had been married once, left his wife, and gave his flat to her, living himself in a modest flat. He received a pension, was respectable, and, despite his age, seemed a suitable match for Sarah. Yet where would I lead him? To his motherinlaw, perhaps?
I explained everything plainly, begged forgiveness, and he, not one to be foolish, went to see me. Vera Nichols, he said, I love Sarah; I cannot live without her.
My face showed not a single twitch.
You love her, I said dryly. Very well, live together then.
I added, I wont let you drag Vicky into your flat. You can stay here, with me.
Thus we all lived under one roof. The neighbours whispered, chewing their tongues, gossiping about how the oncesharp Vera had driven a son away and how Millynow fully acceptedhad become the familys centre. Only the lazy neighbour never bothered to swat at Veras old bones. She ignored idle talk, kept her distance from the neighbours, and never spoke of the younger generation. She held herself with dignity.
Sarah later gave birth to Katie, and I could not help but be proud of my grandchildren, though I never called Katie my granddaughterjust little one.
Then calamity struck, as it often does. Sarah fell gravely ill. Her husband broke down, even turned to drink. I, without a word, emptied the savings, took her to London, paid for every medicine, consulted every specialist. It was of no avail.
One morning Sarah felt a little better and asked for chicken broth. I, delighted, slaughtered a chicken, plucked it, boiled it. When I served the broth, she could not swallow and, for the first time in my life, she wept. I, who had never been seen crying, wept with her:
Oh, child, why do you turn away from me when I have loved you? What are you doing?
I steadied myself, wiped my tears, and said, Do not worry about the children; they will not be lost. From then on I did not shed another tear, stayed beside her, held her hand, stroked it gently, as if seeking forgiveness for all that lay between us.
Another ten years slipped by. Vicky was to be married. Mabel and Emma, now greyhaired and haggard, returned, having never been blessed with children of their own. The extended family gathered. Tom appeared, though his marriage had dissolved long ago. He drank heavily, his eyes widening as he beheld Vicky, now a striking young woman. I never expected such a splendid daughter, he muttered. Yet upon hearing that his own daughter called her fatherfigure dad, his mood darkened, and he blamed me, accusing me of bringing a stranger into the house:
Why did you let a man who isnt yours into our home? He should leave. I am the father here.
I answered, No, son. You are not a father. You have remained in your trousers, never growing into a man. I spoke as I had spoken before. Tom, humiliated, gathered his belongings and left once more, wandering the world. Vicky married, bore a son, and named him Alexander in honour of his stepfather. Last year we laid Sarah to rest beside Vickys grave.
Now they lie in a row: daughterinlaw and motherinlaw, with a young birch tree sprouting between them this spring. No one planted it; it just appearedperhaps a farewell from Sarah, perhaps my own last whisper of forgiveness.
I close this entry with a weary sigh, hoping the birch will grow tall enough to shade the house, and perhaps, in its shade, the wounds of the past will finally heal.
Margaret Whitaker.
