**Diary Entry**
I always thought Mum wanted the best for me. But lately, it feels like every favour comes with strings attached.
*“I gave you the most, so I should get the most help in return. Or have you forgotten about the flat?”*
Her voice over the phone was sharp, grating against my nerves. Emily clutched the receiver between her shoulder and ear, one hand steadying a saucepan while the other stirred porridge.
*“Mum, we already agreed. Tom and I are visiting his parents on Saturday,”* I said, fighting to keep my voice calm. *“They need help in the garden. There’s loads to do.”*
*“So mine just sorts itself out, does it?”* Mum scoffed. *“The delivery man’s drunk again. Boxes need moving. Sort it. Come in the morning—we’ll be done by lunch. Then you can go play farmers.”*
I sank into a chair, pulse quickening. These conversations never changed. Mum never *asked*. She demanded. Her arguments were ironclad, weighted with guilt. Like an unpaid debt.
*“Mum, we promised them. They hardly see us as it is. I can’t just cancel.”*
*“Oh, really?”* Her tone turned biting. *“After everything I’ve done for my daughter, she still looks the other way?”*
I shut my eyes. Here it comes.
*“Remember your wedding? Who gave you the deposit? His parents?”* A derisive laugh. *“They can’t even afford to fix their own crumbling house. Without me, you’d still be hopping between rentals.”*
Tom heard everything from the next room. Or enough. He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. I felt his gaze. I ended the call abruptly and met his eyes.
*“You heard?”* I asked quietly.
*“Enough.”* His voice was flat. *“Tell her not to call again. Does she think she *bought* us?”*
I wanted to argue, but the words stuck. I understood him. Every time Mum “reminded” us of her help, it felt like this flat wasn’t ours—just another rental. And she was the landlord.
Tom slammed the balcony door behind him, fishing out his cigarettes. The sound made me flinch.
I sat with my head in my hands. At first, I thought Mum just worried for me. Now, the honeyed words tasted bitter.
At the wedding, she’d been radiant—fiery red dress like *she* was the bride. Lavish spread, live band, two emcees… all her doing.
When gifts were presented, she stood, held up an envelope, and announced loud enough for the room:
*“Darling, this is your fresh start. Make it count.”*
Then she named the figure. Not whispered. Not discreet. For everyone, including Tom’s parents, to hear.
I felt Tom’s grip tighten under the table. His parents—Margaret and George—gave theirs later, quietly, no numbers. Just warmth.
*“We’re not wealthy, but it’s given with love,”* George said, cheeks pink. *“Be happy. Listen to each other.”*
Mum was already engrossed in gossip. Words didn’t move her. Numbers did.
I stared at our kitchen—the pale walls, the slow cooker, the teacups. Everything here started with that envelope. The renovation, the furniture.
I’d thought it was just help. Now I saw it: an *investment*. And with each demand, she cashed it in, piece by piece.
——
Weeks passed. We spoke rarely, only when Mum called. Sometimes I’d reach for the phone, then stop myself. I wasn’t angry. Just… tired of the icy barbs.
Tom refused to see her now.
*“Go if you want,”* he said. *“I won’t sit and hear how I owe her for a *gift*. My family doesn’t do investors.”*
It stung, but he wasn’t wrong.
One evening, I tried talking to her.
*“Mum, we’re grateful, truly. But gratitude isn’t an obligation.”*
She gaped like I’d lost my mind.
*“What? You’ve never heard of paying back? The ‘glass of water in old age’? Children *owe* their parents. We raise you for a reason.”*
Something in me tore. I’d seen it coming, but *hearing* it—
——
I remembered flat-hunting. Scouring Rightmove for hours. Tom checking transport links, comparing layouts. We’d found a tidy one-bed in the suburbs. Not grand, but cosy. Within budget.
Mum insisted on topping us up for a two-bed.
*“You’ll be cramped! And what about children? Just take the help.”*
*“This suits us,”* Tom cut in. *“We’ll manage.”*
Back then, I’d rolled my eyes. *“Relax. She’s not charging interest.”*
Now, I was grateful for his wariness. We’d have doubled the debt.
Even Tom’s parents had grown distant lately. Margaret spoke curtly; George made barbed jokes.
*“Heard the flat’s all thanks to your mum, eh?”* he’d muttered once. *“Lucky lad, marrying into that dowry.”*
I didn’t understand—until I learned Mum had bragged at Tom’s birthday:
*“I *paid* for that flat. His parents are skint. Should the kids suffer?”*
George and Margaret *had* contributed—a quarter of the cost. Not nothing.
The shame wasn’t mine, yet it weighed on me.
That night, I sat opposite Tom as he scrolled his phone.
*“I feel… stuck,”* I said finally. *“But I’m not blind. I see it now.”*
He set the phone down.
*“I won’t cut Mum off, but—”* I hesitated. *“Her ‘help’ costs too much. I won’t live in debt.”*
*“It’s not debt anymore. It’s poison,”* he said. *“Slow, quiet, chipping us apart.”*
I nodded. He’d given me permission to stop.
*“No more deals disguised as care,”* I said softly. *“If she wants to talk, fine. But no more guilt. Even if I have to… push back.”*
I wasn’t alone. That steadied me.
——
Of course, Mum didn’t relent.
*“Emily? Sorry it’s late. Aunt Claire’s train gets in at three a.m. Could you fetch her? Taxis are dodgy that hour.”*
Not a request. An order. I braced.
*“We can’t. Tom starts early. You should’ve asked sooner.”*
*“Oh, *of course*,”* she sneered. *“His parents snap their fingers, and you run. But *I* need an appointment?”*
A theatrical sigh. As if I’d stranded Aunt Claire in a ditch.
*“Fine. Suit yourselves,”* she spat. *“But don’t come crying when *you* need help. After all I’ve done—”*
*“Done, yes. Thank you. But I’m not your property. Neither is Tom.”*
Silence. Then—
*“Crystal clear.”*
The line went dead.
——
A week later, I bumped into Sarah, a mutual friend.
*“Oh, your mum’s been *savage*,”* she laughed. *“Told Natalie Tom only married you for the flat—picked a rich girl on purpose.”*
I froze.
*“*What?*”*
*“Well, you know her. Loose lips. Just… hope Tom doesn’t hear.”*
I could only guess if he had. But Mum wasn’t stopping.
We saw the solicitor the next week. Signed over a quarter-share—the amount Tom’s parents contributed. Fair.
Legally, little changed. But it felt like a declaration.
After, I hovered over my phone. Then texted Mum:
*“Thank you for the help. But help isn’t a loan. We don’t owe you. And you weren’t the only one. A quarter is Tom’s now. No more money talk. To anyone.”*
She never replied. At first, the silence ached. Then… lightness. No more listening for whispers. If Mum gossiped now, it wasn’t on me.
——
Three months later, we were at Tom’s parents’. Their cottage, with its sagging porch and window-box flowers. I turned sausages on the grill. Tom and George bickered over fence repairs. Margaret chopped salad, humming.
I watched them and realised: *This* is family. No price tags. No urgency. Here, I could just *be*.
Tom came over, squeezed my hand.
*“Less money, more peace,”* he said, smiling.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
We’d all made our choices. And mine wasn’And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden light over the garden, I finally understood that love shouldn’t come with a ledger.
