**Diary Entry**
She kicked me out.
Margaret Hayes stood on the doorstep of her own flat, two suitcases in hand, unable to believe what was happening. Behind her, the door slammed shut, the lock clicking firmly. Her daughter, Emily, had barred every bolt.
“Mum, I mean it!” Emily shouted from inside. “Until you come to your senses, you’re not stepping foot back in here!”
Margaret leaned against the hallway wall. Her legs trembled, her head spun. Seventy-two years she’d lived, and never had she tasted humiliation like this.
“Emily, love, open the door,” she pleaded, swallowing her tears. “Let’s talk this through.”
“No!” came the sharp reply. “I’m done arguing with you. How much longer am I supposed to put up with your meddling?”
Meddling. Margaret gave a bitter laugh. That’s what Emily called her protecting her grandson, Harry, from his stepfather’s temper.
It began that morning when she woke to the sound of a child crying. Harry was only eight, but his sobs were heavy, hopeless—too old for his years. Margaret had climbed off the sofa—she’d given up her bedroom to Emily and her new husband, Simon—and listened.
“I told you to put your toys away!” Simon roared. “How many times do I have to say it?”
“I did!” Harry sniffled.
“Liar! That car’s still under the bed!”
A sharp slap, then a cry. Margaret couldn’t take it. She stormed in.
“What on earth are you doing?” she gasped, seeing Harry’s reddened cheek. “He’s just a child!”
“Stay out of this, Margaret,” Simon said coolly, fastening his shirt. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Doesn’t concern me? That’s my grandson!”
“And my stepson. I have every right to discipline him.”
Emily stood by the window, back turned. Margaret rushed to Harry and pulled him close.
“It’s all right, love. Grandma’s here.”
“Mum, don’t coddle him,” Emily cut in. “Simon’s right. He’s been acting up.”
“Acting up?” Margaret couldn’t believe her ears. “He’s top of his class, helps around the house, never causes trouble!”
“Oh, he causes plenty,” Simon muttered. “Always dropping things, making noise, blaring the telly.”
“He’s a child! They don’t sit still like statues!”
“They do if you raise them right,” Simon snapped, stalking off to the kitchen.
Margaret walked Harry to school, heart heavy. Life had changed the moment Simon moved in. Emily had met him six months ago at work—a department head, divorced, no kids. At first, it was all roses: dinners, gifts, Emily glowing with happiness.
“Mum, finally, a real man,” she’d gushed. “Strong, decisive. Knows what he wants.”
Margaret had been happy for her. After the divorce from Harry’s father, Emily had struggled to find someone decent. Men came and went—some drank, some were lazy, some didn’t like children.
Simon had seemed perfect. Well-off, polite, even kicked a football around with Harry now and then.
But once he moved in, everything shifted. First, he demanded Margaret’s bedroom.
“Mum, we need our space,” Emily had coaxed.
Margaret agreed, though the sofa left her stiff and sore.
Then came his rules. Only his TV channels. Only his food in the fridge. No leniency with Harry.
“Boy needs to grow up tough,” he’d tell Emily. “You and your mother spoil him rotten.”
Emily nodded along. Margaret barely recognised her. Once independent, strong-willed—now she hung on Simon’s every word.
That afternoon, Margaret bought groceries for supper—Harry loved her roast. But Simon was home early.
“Margaret,” he said, seeing her bags, “Emily and I need to talk.”
They sat at the kitchen table. Emily fiddled with a napkin; Simon watched Margaret like a detective.
“What’s this about?”
“Your interference with Harry’s upbringing is disrupting our family,” Simon began. “You undermine me—spoil him rotten.”
“I’m protecting him from unfairness.”
“Unfairness?” Emily cut in. “Simon’s making a man of him.”
“Men don’t hit children,” Margaret said firmly.
“I don’t hit him!” Simon scoffed. “A smack for discipline—every father does it!”
“You’re not his father.”
“Then where is he?” Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Paying child support? Calling? No. But I’m here, raising him, spending my money on him. I’ll have his obedience.”
Margaret stayed silent. Emily’s ex had vanished after the divorce—no calls, no money, as if Harry didn’t exist.
“Mum,” Emily murmured, “Simon’s right. You baby Harry. He needs to learn.”
“He’s eight!”
“Old enough for discipline.”
Margaret scarcely recognised this hollow-eyed woman as her daughter. The Emily who’d raised Harry alone for years—laughing, fierce—was gone.
“Emily, what’s happened to you? You’d never let anyone hurt Harry.”
“No one’s hurting him! Simon’s teaching him!”
Simon sighed. “Let’s be clear. We want privacy—to build our family without interference.”
Margaret’s blood ran cold.
“You’re asking me to leave?”
“Yes,” Emily said, eyes down. “You’ll manage. Your pension can rent a room.”
“Emily! This is my flat! I worked forty years for it!”
“You signed it over to me,” Emily reminded her. “When I married the first time.”
Margaret remembered. She’d been fifty-two—plenty of time to save. But the factory closed, jobs dried up, and her pension barely covered groceries.
“But I’m registered here!”
“You’ll deregister,” Simon said flatly. “Emily owns it. She decides who stays.”
“I’m her mother! Raised her, gave her everything!”
“And I’m grateful,” Emily said coldly, “but I have my own family now.”
“And I don’t matter?”
“You’re a grown woman. You’ll cope.”
That evening, Margaret tried talking to Harry. He was doing homework in his room.
“Harry, love,” she whispered, “do you want Grandma to go?”
His tear-filled eyes met hers. “No! Please don’t leave!”
“Tell your mum.”
“I did. She said it has to be. Simon doesn’t like crowds.”
Margaret held him tight. Her sweet boy, left alone with that brute.
“If Simon hurts you, call me. Promise?”
“You’ll come?”
“Always.”
Next morning, Simon and Emily doubled down.
“Mum, pack by weekend,” Emily said over breakfast.
“Where will I go?”
“That’s your problem.”
“Emily, what’s got into you? You were always kind—”
“Enough whinging,” Simon snapped. “Grown woman acting like a child.”
“I’m not whinging! This is my home!”
“You’re dividing this family!” Simon barked. “A wife obeys her husband—not her mother!”
Margaret looked to Emily. She sat silent, head bowed.
“Emily, speak! Will you really toss me out for him?”
“Don’t talk about Simon like that,” Emily said quietly. “He’s my husband.”
“You’re not even married!”
“We will be,” Simon cut in. “But trust? That’s harder to mend.”
All day, Margaret called friends, scrambled for options. No one could take her in. Sympathy, yes—spare rooms, no.
By evening, she knew. A bedsit, maybe—something her pension could stretch to.
Next morning, she packed. Forty years, two suitcases. Furniture, photos, her late husband’s things—all left behind.
Emily left for work without a word. Harry clung to her, weeping.
“Please stay! I’ll be good!”
“Darling, this isn’t your fault,” Margaret whispered, smoothing his hair.
Simon watched, smug.
“Enough waterworks. Harry, breakfast. Now.”
“Not hungry!”
“Don’t backchat!” Simon growled.
“Leave him be!” Margaret snapped.
“You’ve no say here!” Simon roared. “Get out!”
Margaret grabbed her cases. At the door, Harry stood crying.
“I love you, sunshine. Remember that.”
Then—chaos. Harry lunged, wrapping around her legs. “I won’t let him throw you out!”
Simon yanked him back so hard he fell.
“Enough drama!”
Margaret didn’t recall moving—just the crack of her palm on Simon’s cheek.
“Don’t you dare touch him!”
Simon gaped, then seized her shoulders, shoving her out.
“Gone! Don’t come back!”
The door slammed. Locks clicked.
Now, Margaret sat on a bench outside, suitcases at her feet. Bystanders stared.She straightened her coat, lifted her chin, and walked toward the council offices—if the law wouldn’t help her, she’d find someone who would.
