**Diary Entry**
Nearly six months after our wedding, we decided to visit my parents. I knew it would be a challenge, but I never imagined how harsh it would be. The moment we stepped through the door, Mum greeted us with an icy stare and words that froze my blood: “This is a working house, not a holiday.” Her tone held a warning, as though we hadnt come home but to some grim labour.
My Emily, with her delicate hands and city grace, suddenly seemed as fragile as a flower in the wind. I felt her grip tighten on mine when Mum ordered her to gut the fish. “Henry, shes your wife, not a maid!” I wanted to shoutbut I stayed silent. Silent because I knew any protest would only stoke the flames further.
Those days in the village became a nightmare. Emily worked late into the night, her fingers trembling from the cold as she washed dishes with well water. I watched her bite her lip to keep from crying when Mum accused her of laziness again and again. “Youll never be good enough for my son!” rang in my ears like a curse. And I stood aside, chained by unseen bonds to the soil where I was raised.
Our dinners were boiled potatoes and fish, prepared by Emily, but Mum refused to sit with us. She lurked in the corner like a shadow, waiting for a mistake. And when we finally lay down to sleep, I heard Emilys muffled sobs into the pillow. “I’m sorry I’m sorry for everything,” I whispered, but the words dissolved into the dark.
Back home, I resolved to tell my mother, “You will never insult my wife again.” But she only laughed. “Have you forgotten who raised you? Who fed you when you cried from hunger?” Her words cut like a knife.
When we returned to the village, I was ready to fight. Dad had hurt his leg, so I took the cows to pasture. Emily wore wellies that rubbed her feet raw. Rain turned the fields to mud, and she stumbled after me in silencebecause I knew any kindness from me would only invite more cruelty.
Then came the lamb. Emily couldnt stand the smell, but Mum cooked it deliberately every night. “Eat if you want to be part of this family!” she snapped when Emily pushed her plate away. I took my fork, tore off a piece, and flung it onto the floor. “Never again,” I mutteredbut it was only the first battle.
Now, with Emily expecting our daughter, I wont take the risk. “Come alone if you want,” I tell Mum over the phone. “But she stays here.” Her silence held an ocean of resentment, but for the first time, my heart was calm. I held Emily close, and her warm hands reminded me: sometimes, you must protect your family even from those who gave you life.
P.S. The next time Mum called, I turned off the phone. It hurt us both. But sometimes, pain is the only way to wake up.
