**Diary Entry – May 12th**
When I married Oliver, I truly believed it was forever. I adored him, striving to be the perfect wife—someone he could always rely on, who’d never let him down.
Everyone loved me—kind, warm, with a radiant smile—always ready to help. Even my mother-in-law, Margaret, leaned on me endlessly. She’d ring, complaining of back pain or exhaustion, and I’d rush over: cleaning, cooking, fetching groceries.
*”I’m so lucky to have you, Emily,”* Margaret would sigh. *”My son’s hopeless—men, eh? Always wanted a daughter, but life gave me you instead.”*
The praise fueled me. I worked harder, terrified of disappointing her. And she wasn’t wrong—Oliver never lifted a finger, not for her, nor for our home.
But it wasn’t just laziness. Oliver believed housework was *my* domain. Fine—I liked making our flat cosy. The real issue? He did nothing *and* nitpicked *everything*. Floors not spotless, soup under-seasoned.
Gradually, his jabs grew crueller. He accused me of overspending—though I earned my own money and never asked for a penny.
*”How much does that manicure cost?”* he’d sneer.
*”Thirty pounds,”* I’d murmur, defensive.
*”Thirty quid *every month*!”* he’d explode. *”We could’ve saved for a car!”*
*”You spend that on gym memberships,”* I’d whisper.
*”That’s *different*! Fitness is *health*! Your nails are *frivolous*!”*
His complaints piled up. Soon, he hated my monthly café trips with friends.
*”Why gad about without your husband?”* he’d grumble. *”Stay home.”*
I was patient—until I wasn’t. Arguments became daily; understanding vanished. After three years, I filed for divorce. Oliver fought it—not to save us, but because losing control *infuriated* him. I was done.
The moment he moved out, Margaret called.
*”Emily, *how could you*?”* she wailed. *”Why rush to divorce?”*
Exhausted, I said, *”It wasn’t rushed, Margaret. I tried. Oliver refused to compromise. The criticism… I couldn’t take it anymore.”*
*”But you were *perfect* together!”* she sobbed. *”And I *adore* you! What will I do without you?”*
I needed support—yet somehow, *she* became the victim.
*”You *won’t* be without me,”* I said gently. *”We can still talk. Divorcing Oliver doesn’t mean abandoning you.”*
*”Oh, you *angel*!”* she cried. *”So we’re not saying goodbye?”*
*”Of course not.”*
The divorce drained me. Oliver, convinced *he* was the prize, couldn’t stomach being left. But eventually, the storm passed. I realised—I felt *nothing*. The love had died long ago. Had he always been this way, or had I been blind?
I blocked him entirely. Margaret, however, clung like a limpet.
A week later: *”Emily, darling! How are you?”*
*”Fine,”* I said. *”You?”*
*”Dreadful, love! My knees are agony. Asked Oliver to fetch my pills—he *refused*! However will I manage?”*
Guilt twisted my gut.
*”I’ll bring them,”* I sighed. *”Text the list.”*
*”Oh, you *saint*!”* she trilled. *”I *knew* I could count on you!”*
Two hours of tea and complaints later, I escaped.
But the calls multiplied. Groceries. Cleaning. Once, she demanded a lift to the shops.
*”Why can’t *Oliver* help?”* I snapped.
She mumbled excuses. Shame flooded me—*She’s elderly. Be kind.*
Soon, I saw her more than my own mum. Margaret’s “emergencies” sabotaged my plans. If I hesitated, her guilt-tripping wore me down.
I’d trapped myself. A promise to help had become a life sentence.
Then—she slipped.
*”Emily, love! My sister’s visiting. Fancy driving us to the countryside tomorrow?”*
*”Not too early,”* I groaned.
*”Nine a.m.?”*
*”Fine.”*
*”You *gem*! Whatever would I do without you?”*
As I went to hang up, Margaret’s sister’s voice crackled—*”So? She agreed?”*
The line was still open.
*”Obviously,”* Margaret chuckled. *”Where else would she go?”*
*”How d’you manage it? Divorced your son, yet she’s still your errand girl!”*
*”Because she’s *soft*,”* Margaret sneered. *”Pleases everyone. Frankly, I’m *glad* they split. Oliver needs a sharper woman. *She* can keep running after me—who’d want her now?”*
My blood *boiled*. I hung up, trembling.
Next morning, I slept in. Margaret’s frantic calls piled up.
*”Emily! Where *are* you?”*
*”Oh! Be there in fifteen!”* I sang, sipping coffee.
*”We’re *waiting*!”*
*”I’m *here*!”* I lied. *”Odd—can’t see you. Maybe I’m at the wrong building? Pop over!”*
After more rageful rings, I texted:
*”Heard everything yesterday. Lose my number.”* Then—*blocked.*
As I drained my cup, lightness washed over me. I should’ve cut *both* of them loose sooner.
Now? I’m free. And for the first time in years—I’m *happy*.
