**Diary Entry**
Three years ago, my mother-in-law threw me and my child out onto the street. And now she has the nerve to be offended that I don’t want to speak to her.
I’m thirty, living in London, raising my son, and trying to build a normal life. But deep inside, there’s still a pain that won’t fade. Because three years ago, a woman I once considered family cast us out without a second thought. Now, she can’t fathom why I refuse to talk to her. Worse—she even acts hurt by it.
James and I met in our first year at university. It was a real love story—no parties, no games, just something deep from the start. Then, unexpectedly, I fell pregnant. Despite being on birth control, the test showed two lines. Fear, panic, tears—it was overwhelming, but I could never have considered ending it. James didn’t run. He stood by me, proposed, and we married.
We had nowhere to live. My parents were in a village outside Manchester, and I’d been in a London student flat since I was seventeen. James, though, had been on his own since sixteen—his mother, Margaret Whitmore, moved to Oxford with her new husband after remarrying, leaving him her two-bed flat in Stratford. After the wedding, she “graciously” allowed us to stay there.
At first, it was peaceful. We studied, worked part-time, prepared for the baby. I kept the place spotless, cooked, cleaned, pinched every penny. But everything changed when Margaret started visiting—not just dropping in, but inspecting. She’d open cupboards, check under the bed, take off her gloves to drag a finger along the windowsill. Pregnant and exhausted, I scrubbed the flat relentlessly, but it was never enough.
“Why isn’t the towel centred?” “Breadcrumbs on the kitchen mat!” “You’re not a wife—you’re a disaster!” These were her constant refrains.
When our son Oliver was born, it got worse. I barely had strength to sleep or feed him, yet Margaret demanded surgical-grade cleanliness. Three times a week, I polished the flat to perfection—still, she found fault. Then, one day, she dropped the ultimatum: “I’ll be here next week. If I see so much as a speck of dust—you’re out.”
I begged James to reason with her. He tried. Margaret didn’t budge. When she arrived and spotted old boxes on the balcony—things I hadn’t moved because they weren’t mine—she erupted.
“Pack your things and go back to your parents! And James can choose: stay with you, or stay here.”
James didn’t betray me. He left with me for Manchester. We squeezed into my parents’ cramped home. He woke at six daily—university, then shifts, returning late. I tried freelancing, earning barely anything. We survived on noodles and eggs, counting every pound. Only my parents’ kindness kept us afloat. That, and love.
Eventually, things turned. We graduated, found jobs, rented a place back in London. Oliver grew, and we became a solid family. But the bitterness lingers.
Margaret lives alone now. The Stratford flat sits empty. She calls James sometimes, asks about Oliver, requests photos. He responds—he doesn’t hold grudges. But I can’t. To me, it’s betrayal. She shattered us at our weakest, abandoning us when we had nothing.
“It’s my flat! I had every right!” she argues.
Fine—legally, maybe. But morally? Where was her heart when we stood at King’s Cross with a baby and two suitcases?
I’m not spiteful. But forgiveness? That’s not owed. And I won’t be part of her life again.
