**Diary Entry – 30th April, 2024**
I ran into my mother-in-law, Evelyn, just outside the building today. She was out of breath, as usual.
“Claire, thank goodness I caught you! Saves me trekking all the way upstairs,” she huffed.
“Hello, Evelyn,” I replied, caught off guard.
We weren’t exactly on bad terms, but Evelyn rarely visited. Her world revolved entirely around her spoiled daughter, Beatrice.
“Claire, love, could you spare five hundred quid? Beatrice and little Jack are off to that new wellness retreat. Everything’s gone mad expensive lately!” She rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue.
Again, my blood boiled. How many times had I rehearsed shouting, *”I’m not a cash machine!”* in my head? I’d say it to her face, to Beatrice’s—end this endless begging once and for all.
But I swallowed the words. Evelyn was my husband Edward’s mother, grandmother to our Lily. Speaking up meant drama, tension, forcing Edward to choose between us. So, biting my tongue, I reached for my purse.
—
Work had been brutal. Another audit, the managers breathing down our necks, and my boss in one of his foul moods. Two hours late, a rushed supermarket dash, then home to cook, help Lily with homework, and sort uniforms for tomorrow. Never-ending.
I trudged upstairs, unlocked the flat.
“Mum! We’ve got a geography project on British birds for tomorrow. Help me?” Lily bounced over, all excitement.
“Of course, love. Let me change, whip up dinner, then we’ll sort it.”
Edward glanced up from the sofa. “You look wrecked. Work again?”
“Audit week. The usual.”
“Listen, I sent Mum five hundred. Jack needed a new spring coat.”
“Edward, is this ever going to stop? Jack has a father—why must we foot the bill? Why are *their* problems always dumped on us?” I snapped.
“Don’t start, Claire. You know how it is.”
*”How* is it?” I barely kept from shouting.
“Beatrice can’t hold a job, her ex won’t pay child support, Mum gives her entire pension… Is it *too* much to buy the kid a coat? We both work!”
“That’s just it, Edward! *We* work. Why must *Lily* go without so another family thrives? Explain that!” My cheeks burned.
“Not now, Claire. Come on, I’ll help with dinner.”
—
Beatrice, Edward’s younger sister, had married some flashy “entrepreneur,” Oliver.
“Beatrice and Ollie are off to Tenerife again! Five-star resort! And you, stuck in that dreary office,” Evelyn would gloat.
Turns out, “entrepreneur” meant debts, splurged on a lifestyle they couldn’t afford. When it collapsed, Oliver vanished—rumour said Scotland. Beatrice, left with loans and Jack, cried to Evelyn, who syphoned her pension to bail her out. The rest barely fed three mouths.
So, we stepped in—paid bills, groceries. At first, it felt right. Family in trouble—who’d turn away?
Then I spotted Beatrice in a café, sipping lattes with cake.
“What’re you doing here?” I blurted.
“Having coffee. Problem?” She smirked.
“We give you money, and you’re *here*?”
“Oh, so *you* can lunch out, but I can’t?” she sneered.
That evening, Evelyn unleashed hell. I was *selfish, ungrateful*, traumatising poor Beatrice—who, apparently, was still *recovering* from her divorce.
“I don’t *care* if she has coffee! But get a *job*, then splurge!” I argued.
Edward tried mediating. “Beatrice, love, Jack’s old enough for nursery. You could work—”
“Nursery? Are you *mad*? He’s *delicate*! Strangers looking after him?” Evelyn wailed.
“*Every* child goes! Lily did at eighteen months!”
“Keep your money! *I’ll* work, but *never* let you near them!” She stormed out.
Silence followed. No visits, no pleas. Edward moped; I reassured him—Beatrice was grown. Sort alimony, a job, nursery. *Fix* things.
He agreed. The issue? Beatrice *wouldn’t*. And Evelyn enabled her.
—
Months later, at Westfield, we bumped into them—Beatrice, Evelyn, and Jack, laden with shopping bags.
“Beatrice landed a *marvellous* job now! No more *charity*,” Evelyn crowed.
“Brilliant! Knew you’d manage,” Edward cheered.
“Truly happy for you,” I forced out.
Beatrice preened, flashing a new iPhone.
Turns out, she’d opened *another* credit card, maxed it—then missed payments. Back to square one.
Cue the tears, the begging. We caved—*again*. She swore *this* time, she’d *change*.
Spoiler: she didn’t.
—
Today:
“Claire! Five hundred? The retreat’s draining us!” Evelyn gasped.
I snapped. “Look—*empty*! Lily’s winter coat, Edward’s work gear, car repairs—where’s *extra*? We *skip holidays* to bail *you* out, yet Beatrice jets off?”
“You *viper*!” Evelyn spat, storming away.
*Finally.*
Edward fretted. Three weeks of quiet. Then:
“Beatrice met a *wonderful* man—Paul Oakley. *Businessman*. Hired her!”
I froze. “Edward… my boss warned about him. Scams, shell companies—”
He called Beatrice.
“*Butt out*! Don’t *ruin* this for me!” she shrieked.
Fine. We agreed: *no more*. Her happiness? *Her* bill to pay.
