**Diary Entry – 12th May**
My ex-mother-in-law still refuses to leave me in peace.
My ex-husband, Oliver, has long moved on—raising another child with his new wife—yet his mother still hovers over me, suffocating under the pretence of caring for her granddaughter. If she were truly concerned, she’d make sure her precious boy paid his child support on time.
Oliver and I endured six painful years together. In the end, I fled—no fear of being alone with my little girl could outweigh the dread of staying. Relatives insisted, “A child needs her father,” but I’d had enough of his drunken benders and reckless behaviour.
Margaret Hawthorne never respected me. Yet after the divorce, she became fixated on my life, using our daughter as an excuse. I suspect she panicked at the thought of having no one to care for her in her old age.
“Stop being so dramatic! He doesn’t hit you, does he? Brings home a wage—good enough,” she’d scold.
Ah, yes. The bare minimum for a keeper. I stopped arguing long ago. I never pursued formal child support, either—just to keep Oliver from making demands later. He promised to help financially, of course. Empty words.
Six months later, he remarried. Oddly, news of a new grandchild didn’t bring Margaret joy. Instead, she redoubled her efforts to meddle—showing up unannounced, scrutinising my every move. “It’s my right to see my granddaughter,” she’d declare. Convenient excuse.
Funny how she barely acknowledged our daughter before. Now? She’s just sniffing for weakness.
Since the divorce, I’ve rebuilt my life. No more being chained to the stove or trapped in the house. Weekends are for picnics at Regent’s Park, cinema trips, and visits to my parents.
“Dragging that child about—she should learn proper duties!” Margaret once snapped.
“We rest on weekends. She’s enjoying her childhood—your pots and mops can wait.”
She expects me to weep over Oliver while training an eight-year-old to cook and scrub. Why? Childhood is fleeting. My daughter tidies her toys, sets the table—more than enough at her age.
“You’re a hopeless housewife, and she’ll turn out just the same,” Margaret sneered.
Once, I left a new toothbrush in the holder without discarding the old. Instantly, she accused me of “entertaining men” in front of my child. I didn’t dignify it with a defence—I’m a grown woman.
“You’ve no right to a personal life—you’re a mother! Focus on your child, not men!” she shrieked in the stairwell.
“Yet your darling boy can father another baby?”
“You left him! Decent men don’t grow on trees!”
I finally barred her from our flat. If she wants visits, we’ll meet at the park. Now she’s threatening social services. Let her. I’ve nothing to fear—no matter what twisted tales she spins.
