**Personal Diary Entry**
When Andrew and I got married, we immediately dreamed of having our own place. We lived in a small town near Bristol and relied only on ourselves. My parents couldn’t help, and Andrew had grown up with his grandmother, Margaret Wilson, and didn’t want to go back to her house. He barely spoke to his mother—she only turned up occasionally to visit Gran. She didn’t need him anymore; she had a new husband and a young daughter, and her son seemed like a stranger now.
We took out a mortgage and worked like mad. We wanted to pay off a chunk so we could comfortably plan for children. Andrew borrowed a bit from his mother, but we paid her back quickly. For five years, we scrimped on everything, and by then, the mortgage was nearly cleared. We breathed a sigh of relief—even if I went on maternity leave, we’d manage the payments. Then, when we finally decided to try for a baby, we found out we were expecting. That same night, as we prepared to celebrate, his mother, Irene, knocked on the door. Her visit was like a bolt from the blue.
“What’s the occasion?” she said sarcastically, eyeing us.
We shared our happy news, but she didn’t even blink. Instead of congratulations, she snapped, “That’s not why I’m here. Andrew, your sister, Sophie, is getting married. She has nowhere to live. Gran is moving in with you, so make space.”
“Why with us?” Andrew spluttered.
“She raised you. The least you can do is help her,” Irene shot back.
“Mum, she has her own flat! Why should Sophie live there?”
The argument ended in a storm of accusations. Irene slammed the door and left. The next day, Gran arrived. She stood on the doorstep, clutching her handkerchief, tears streaming. “I’m just a burden—no one wants me,” she whispered, and my heart broke. Andrew hugged her. “Don’t cry, Gran. It’ll be alright.” But I already knew our life was about to turn into a nightmare.
Once Margaret moved in, the chaos began. Irene started showing up at all hours without warning, claiming she had every right to see her mother. After her visits, things began disappearing—small things, but still infuriating. A vase she’d admired, a figurine from the shelf. I bit my tongue, but inside, I was seething. Then Sophie took Gran’s telly—the one we’d bought so she could watch her soaps—packed it up, and left without a word. Worse, she pocketed Gran’s pension, leaving her with nothing.
One day, Margaret finally spoke up. “If you miss me so much, I can move back. Sophie doesn’t have kids, but Andrew’s about to be a father.”
After that, Irene visited less—probably afraid Gran would take back the flat. A year after our son was born, I went back to work. Gran happily looked after her great-grandson. We started dreaming of a bigger place—two bedrooms was too cramped now. One day, Margaret beamed and said, “Sophie’s pregnant and wants help with the baby. But I’m settled here now—I’m not moving. Let’s get a three-bed and wait for our little princess!”
I believe it’ll happen. But every time I remember Gran’s tears and Irene’s cruelty, fury bubbles inside me. Our family deserves peace, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect us from those who only see us as a convenience.
