**Diary Entry**
*”Your brat’s screaming again?!”* Those words came from the woman who calls herself a grandmother.
*”Why is your child screaming again?!”* My mother-in-law spat the words at me with such contempt, as if I’d dragged a stranger’s baby into the house, not her own granddaughter.
*”She’s ill—she’s got a fever,”* I tried to explain, my breath ragged from exhaustion and frayed nerves.
*”I don’t care! Make her stop! My head’s pounding!”* she snapped, not even glancing toward the nursery where my little girl lay whimpering, burning up on crumpled sheets.
I darted around the flat like a trapped animal. My baby groaned, her tiny body wracked with pain. I scrambled for calpol, mechanically checked the water in her bottle, drew the curtains so the sun wouldn’t stab her tired eyes… Then I flicked on the nightlight projector—its soft stars the only thing that soothed her. For a few precious seconds, she’d quieten, watching those glowing specks above. That was my moment—to rush to the kitchen, stir porridge, steep chamomile tea, check nappies. All at once. And all alone.
And my mother-in-law? She sprawled in her armchair like some self-appointed queen, clad in snakeskin-print silk, moaning about her *”splitting headache”* and demanding silence. She accused me of *”not being able to shut that child up.”*
*”Listen here,”* she hissed as I passed by again, *”you’ll be out of this house soon. You and that sniveling brat. My son’s had girls ten times better. He didn’t marry for this—a bloody madhouse! He’ll tire of this family nonsense, mark my words.”*
And you know what? *Sod off.* Just *sod off.* Only I didn’t say it aloud. I clenched my teeth and hurried back to my daughter, who was crying again—from fever, from pain, from the fact no one held her but me. I tucked the blanket around her, kissed her burning forehead, held her close.
Then back to the kitchen—through another volley of venom:
*”Good mothers don’t raise screamers!”*
*”That child’s just spoiled rotten!”*
*”Women like you are a disgrace!”*
*”My son deserves a proper wife, not this—”*
And where was my husband? Always working. Always oblivious to the way his mother poisoned my days. *”Ignore her,”* he’d say. *”She’s just getting on.”* But my exhaustion, my shaking hands, our sick child, this waking nightmare—it’s as if none of it matters to him.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds. I don’t know how much longer I can last in this house where my daughter and I are treated like intruders. But I know this much—I won’t let anyone belittle my little girl again. I’ll leave if I must. I’ll fight. I’m not just a wife or a daughter-in-law anymore. I’m a *mother.* And that means I’m stronger than they think.
