**Wednesday, 12th April**
I never thought it would come to this. My daughter-in-law doesn’t even bother hiding her hatred for me. She rang me earlier, screaming down the phone, accusing me of trying to ruin her marriage to Michael. As if I could.
I’m Margaret Elizabeth Hughes—just an ordinary woman of sixty-three. A mother who gave everything for her only son. His father left when Michael was barely two, and I raised him alone. Worked nights as a nurse in the local clinic, made sure he never went without—clean shirts for school, warm dinners, every little thing.
He grew up kind, decent. I was so proud. But now? It feels like he’s thrown it all away for a woman who doesn’t just disrespect me—she flaunts her contempt. Her name is Imogen.
From the first moment, she struck me as… too much. Too loud, too sharp, too full of herself. When Michael brought her round for tea, I knew something was off. The way she looked at me—cold, assessing. No warmth, no courtesy. But I told myself: *Be fair. He loves her. Try.*
We went to a café in town. It was worse than I feared. She snapped at the waiter, sent back her pudding because it wasn’t “instagrammable,” as she put it. Spoke like everyone beneath her. And her outfit—a tiny jumpsuit, cleavage on display, as if meeting your future mother-in-law called for clubbing attire. I nearly pulled Michael aside then and there.
I chalked it up to nerves. But things only got worse. After the wedding, Michael stopped calling. I held back, didn’t want to intrude—but I missed him. Finally rang him myself, only to be met with frost. Another time, when he did phone, I heard Imogen in the background: “Hang up. You’ve talked enough.” She didn’t whisper it. Wanted me to hear.
I bit my tongue for ages, but eventually asked him—*what’s going on?* He sighed. Told me Imogen had a hard past—a messy breakup, a pregnancy, betrayal. Lost the baby. Saw therapists, “healed.” He insists she’s fine now, just sensitive. But I know better. This isn’t sensitivity. It’s spite.
Then, last week, she called me herself. Shouted. Accused me of poisoning Michael against her, meddling, tearing them apart. *Me?* The woman who sacrificed everything for her son? Suddenly I’m the villain?
Michael, as ever, said nothing. Just his usual line: “Mum, I’m a grown man. I’ve got my own family now.” And what am I? Nothing? No right even to a chat?
They live in her flat—three bedrooms, freshly done up. She never lets him forget she paid for it. As if a mortgage means she owns him, too.
I don’t ask for much. No money, no fuss. Just to be part of his life. A phone call. A visit. A hug. Is that so wrong?
Sometimes I wonder if Imogen’s jealous—not of Michael, but of me. My influence. Though what influence? He speaks to her with his whole heart. With me? Politeness. Distance. Like I’m a stranger.
But I still hope. Hope he’ll wake up, realise love for a mother isn’t betrayal of a wife. Hope their marriage lasts, that they learn—family isn’t a contest.
I’ve done my part. Raised him, loved him, let him go. And still, I wait. For him to remember. To call. To hold me. Not out of duty. But because he wants to.
