**Personal Diary Entry**
It’s been six months since my husband moved in with his supposedly “ill” mother, and he shows no intention of coming home. He even has the nerve to accuse me of not understanding him.
Six months. That’s half a year wasted on her little charade. Before this, the longest he’d stayed with her was three weeks—still excessive, but now it’s beyond ridiculous. And somehow, I’m the villain for refusing to play along.
How am I meant to help a woman who’s deliberately sabotaging our marriage? She’s latched onto him in the most pitiful way, faking helplessness. I’ve lived under the same roof as her before—never again.
From the moment Oliver and I got engaged, his mother made it clear she despised the idea. She never outright argued, of course—she needed him to see her as the saintly, devoted mother. But every interaction was laced with quiet jabs, simmering resentment. I ignored it. We had our own flat, our own lives. She hated that most of all—losing control, realising her son no longer orbited around her whims.
Then she devised her masterstroke—one I’ve heard of before but never thought she’d stoop to. Pretending to be gravely ill.
Oliver, bless him, fell for it entirely. The woman’s list of ailments could fill a medical textbook. High blood pressure one minute, dangerously low the next. Chest pains, backaches, creaky knees, even fainting spells. At first, I pitied her—maybe the stress of her precious boy leaving had genuinely taken a toll.
The first time she “took a turn,” Oliver moved in for a week. I packed a bag and went to help, thinking it was serious. That first day? Oscar-worthy. But by day two, I noticed something odd. The second Oliver left the house, she was perfectly fine—laughing, chatting, making tea. The moment he returned? Instant relapse.
I told him. He didn’t believe me. Why would he? She’s spent years perfecting this act. So I left. He came home days later, claiming she’d miraculously recovered—though I suspect my absence was the real cure.
But it never lasts. Every few weeks, another “crisis.” Every time, he rushes back. The only thing that ever snaps her out of it? The threat of a doctor’s visit. Suddenly, she’s healing at record speed.
Six months of this nonsense. It started with a legitimate reason—she had knee surgery after a fall two years ago. The doctor ordered bed rest for a week. Fine. But a week became a month, then six. Now she limps for sympathy, spinning tales about near-fatal stumbles whenever he’s at work. Never when anyone else is around.
The doctors say she’s fine—surgery was a success, she can walk unaided. But what do they know, right?
I’ve given him an ultimatum: come home for good, or I file for divorce. Now he says I don’t love him, that I’m heartless for not “understanding.” He’s not off with some mistress, after all—he’s tending to his poor, fragile mother.
All my friends ask why I’ve waited this long. Maybe I kept hoping he’d see through her. But I think I’ve finally realised—he doesn’t want to.
