**Diary Entry – 12th June**
Six months ago, my mother-in-law moved in with us. She has her own house and is perfectly capable of looking after herself, but she managed to convince my husband that she needed help—claiming she was lonely and frightened. So, in no time at all, he packed her up and brought her into our small two-bedroom flat.
Margaret Whitmore is a difficult woman. She craves attention, no matter the cost. While her late husband was alive, she left us alone, and I was grateful for it. In all our years of marriage, I never managed to get along with her.
*”Oh dear, you should always make an effort before your husband comes home. Even at my age, I wouldn’t let myself go like this. And the roast could be better—perhaps you ought to take some cooking lessons, since your mother never taught you.”*
Those sorts of remarks were her speciality. According to her, she does everything flawlessly, while I, apparently, couldn’t organise a dinner in a fish and chip shop. Before, when we only saw each other at holidays, I bit my tongue. But enduring her jibes every single day is another matter entirely.
Her husband passed last year. We knew it was coming—he’d battled cancer for years. In the weeks that followed, Margaret was a ghost of herself, barely eating, barely speaking. We didn’t dare leave her alone for a month.
Eventually, she snapped out of it—and straight back to her old ways. The snide comments returned, and if anything, that was my sign she was recovering. Too soon, though. Before long, she began working on my husband, whispering about how unbearable it was to live alone.
*”I’m so lonely, so afraid. My heart races at night—what if something happens? Wouldn’t it be better if I lived with you?”*
My husband wasn’t keen, but guilt wore him down. The constant calls and melodrama won. I fought it—the last thing I wanted was Margaret under the same roof. She even suggested *we* move into *her* house instead—bigger, she said. True, but there I’d never feel at home. Besides, our flat’s in central London—easy for work and the park.
I knew she’d eat me alive on her own turf. My husband tried to reassure me, promised he’d keep her in line, swore it was only temporary. *”Mum’s just Mum,”* he said, as if that excused everything.
Six months on, our marriage is hanging by a thread. I’m frayed at the edges, running around after her like a maid—*Make her tea, take her walking, put on her programmes.* And still, she moans that no one cares. One wrong move, and suddenly she’s clutching her chest, demanding an ambulance.
We planned a seaside trip to Brighton—she threw a fit, weeping about abandonment until my husband caved. *”Bring her along, then,”* he said. What sort of holiday is that? He just shrugs, and I’ve had enough. If he won’t choose, I will.
**Lesson learned:** Some bridges aren’t meant to be crossed—but if you do, don’t be surprised when they collapse beneath you.
