**Diary Entry**
*10th May, 2024*
Why wont you open the door? Victor snapped, rubbing his tired eyes.
Because I dont want to, I replied flatly. Guests should give notice before turning up unannouncedand they certainly shouldnt rifle through my cupboards, the fridge, or my wardrobe.
What do you mean, you wont? Thats my *mother*! She came to see *me*!
Then *you* go greet her. But not in *my* house.
He scowled. Emma always got along better with my mum.
You know what? I shot back, scrubbing the kitchen counter hard enough to leave marks. If I started listing all the ways your ex was better than me, wed both be humiliated.
I paused. Though Im not sure *I* would be.
Victor turned away, jaw clenched, staring out the window.
You already know the story, he muttered.
Exactly. So spare me the tales of *sweet Emma*, I said. Or Ill be the next ex youre sighing over.
I wasnt bluffing.
Id met Victor at a mutual friends gathering nearly a year ago. I even knew Emmanot well, but well enough. Shed brought him along that night, then vanished from the scene a few months later.
One tipsy evening, Victor confessed hed caught her cheating. Hed even shed a tear. Back then, Id found it endearinga man unafraid of emotion, valuing love. Something in me clickedpity, protectiveness, maybe just naivety.
I shouldve known it was maternal instinct, not romance. But it was enough to start something between us.
At first, it was lovely. Hed meet me after work, drive me home, send sweet texts, fuss over whether Id dressed warmly enough. I felt cherished.
Then Emma messaged me.
*Hey. Heard youre seeing Victor. Not my business, but be careful. He and his mum are a package deal.*
I dismissed it. Love conquers all, right? Just because it went wrong with one woman didnt mean it would with me.
But Victor had no such consideration for *my* comfort.
The first time his mother, Margaret, dropped by unannounced, I bit my tongue. Maybe she was just worriedwanted to see who her son was living with.
I shoved Victor out to greet her, threw on clothes, scraped my hair into a ponytail, and stumbled out, still half-asleep.
Margaret was already inspecting our dresser drawers.
*Hmm. All jumbled up,* she said with a knowing smirk. *No wonder your socks never match. Youll learn, dear.*
Not a *hello*, not a *nice to meet you*. Just criticism.
I swallowed my pride.
*Oh, love, those *bags* under your eyes!* she tutted. *Cucumber slices, stat. Or better yetget your kidneys checked. My friend Doris had the same*
I nodded, smiled, pretended to care. All while longing to crawl back into bed. It was *8 a.m.* on a *Saturday*.
Margaret stayed until evening. I endured a masterclass in laundry-folding, flower-watering, and polishing cutlery. By the end, I was wrung out like a dishrag. Victor? Didnt even try to help.
*Is your mum always this hands-on?* I asked him later.
*Course. Shes just being friendly.* He shrugged. *Emma and I used to live with her. Mum misses the company.*
*Well, Im not signing up for a threesome.*
*Problem?* His voice turned sharp. *Emma got on brilliantly with her.*
Of *course* she did. Emma was eight years younger, a people-pleaser who probably memorised Margarets friends medical histories and baked her pies.
But I wasnt Emma.
Margaret came again the next weekendearly, again. This time, she raided the fridge.
*Chicken eggs? Victor only eats quail. *Much* healthier. And these shelves*filthy*.* She wrinkled her nose. *Youre eating off these, love.*
*Not literally,* I wanted to say.
Victor slept through it all.
*Weekends are for *cleaning*,* Margaret declared. *Sponge. Cloth. Now. Next Saturday, Ill teach you steak piejust how Victor likes it.*
I crossed my arms. *Margaret, maybe text before visiting? So I can *plan*?*
*Text? To see my *own son*?* She looked wounded.
*Your son lives with *me* now. Courtesy goes both ways.*
*Emma never minded,* she sniffed.
*Well, my exs mum *brought* me cherry pies. Want the recipe?*
Margarets face darkened. *Think carefully, dear. The nightingale doesnt outsing the lark.*
She left, but the damage was done. Victor kept comparing me to Emma*her* cabbage rolls, *her* mums cooking.
A month of peace. Then the doorbell rang again.
I didnt budge.
Five minutes later, Victor stormed out, groggy and furious.
*Why the hell wont you open the door?*
*Because I *dont want to*,* I said. *Guests call first. And they *dont* snoop.*
*Shes my *mother*!*
*Then *you* deal with her. Not in *my* home.*
The row that followed probably shook the neighbours. Victor accused me of rejecting *him*. Margaret screeched through the door, demanding entry.
Enough.
*Choose,* I said. *Either you explain what *guest* means, or were done.*
He chose the latter.
I didnt cry. We werent even married. Bullet dodged.
Months later, a mutual friend told me Victor had a new girlfriendliving with him *and* Margaret.
*She wants to meet you,* the friend laughed.
*Why?*
*Margarets been singing your praisesgorgeous, strong-willed, *great cook*.*
**Margaret* said that?*
*Guess she only likes you *now*.*
Ive learned since thenlisten to gossip, but trust your gut. And steer *well* clear of men still tied to their mothers apron strings.
Lifes too short to play second fiddle.
*James*
