**Diary Entry**
It’s been three years since my mother-in-law threw my child and me out onto the street. And now she has the nerve to be upset that I won’t speak to her.
I’m thirty, living in London, raising my son, and trying to build a normal life. But deep down, there’s still a pain that won’t fade. Because three years ago, a woman I considered family didn’t hesitate—she tossed us out without a second thought. And now she can’t grasp why I refuse to acknowledge her. Worse, she acts as if *she’s* the wounded one.
Henry and I met in our first year at university. It was real love—no parties, no games, just something serious from the start. Then, unexpectedly, I got pregnant. Despite being on the pill, the test showed two lines. There was fear, panic, tears—but I never once considered ending it. Henry didn’t run. He proposed, and we married.
The problem was, we had nowhere to live. My parents were in a village near Norwich, and from seventeen, I’d been in student halls. Henry, though, had lived alone since sixteen—his mother, Margaret, moved in with her new husband in Manchester after remarrying, leaving him her two-bed flat in Croydon. After the wedding, she *graciously* “allowed” us to stay there.
At first, it was fine. We studied, took side jobs, prepared for the baby. I kept the flat spotless, cooked, budgeted every penny. But everything changed when Margaret started visiting—inspecting, really. She’d open cupboards, check under the bed, take off her gloves just to drag a finger along the windowsill. Pregnant and exhausted, I’d scramble with a cloth, desperate to meet her standards. But nothing was ever good enough.
*“Why isn’t the towel centred?” “Crumbs on the kitchen mat!” “You’re not a wife, you’re a disaster!”*—her constant refrains.
When our son, Oliver, was born, it got worse. I barely had energy to sleep or feed him, yet Margaret demanded surgical-level cleanliness. Three times a week, I scrubbed the flat till it shone, but it was never enough. Then came the day she snapped:
*“I’ll be back in a week. If I find even a speck of dust, you’re out!”*
I begged Henry to reason with her. He tried. Margaret wouldn’t bend. And when she arrived to find her old boxes on the balcony—untouched because they weren’t mine—all hell broke loose.
*“Pack up and go to your parents! Henry can decide—stay with you, or stay here.”*
And Henry didn’t betray us. He came with me to Norwich. We squeezed into my parents’ tiny house. He woke at six every morning—lectures, then odd jobs, back by midnight. I tried freelancing, but the pay was pitiful. We counted pennies, lived on eggs and toast. Only my parents’ support—and our love—kept us afloat.
Eventually, things improved. We graduated, found work, rented a place in London. Oliver grew; we became steady. But the hurt never faded.
Margaret lives alone now. The flat we were kicked from sits empty. She calls Henry sometimes, asks after Oliver, demands photos. He humours her. Holds no grudge. But I can’t. To me, it’s betrayal. She shattered us at our weakest. Left us on a train platform with a baby and two suitcases.
*“It’s my flat! I had every right!”*
Fine, maybe she did. But what about decency? Humanity? Where were those when we stood there, helpless?
I’m not vengeful. But forgiveness? That’s not owed. And she’ll never be part of my life again.
