**Diary Entry**
She’s not my real mother, and that’s that.
“Why do you keep interfering?” Emily yelled, waving her hands furiously. “She’s *my* daughter, not yours!”
“I was just trying to help,” Margaret replied softly, standing by the stove with a frying pan in her hands. “Sophie’s sick—she’s got a high fever…”
“*Trying to help*,” Emily mocked. “You just want to play the perfect stepmum, don’t you? So Dad will think you’re wonderful?”
“Emily, that’s enough,” Victor tried to intervene, but his daughter didn’t even look at him.
“Oh, shut up! You always defend her!” She jabbed a finger in Margaret’s direction. “She’s not my real mum, end of story! You traded me for *her*—for this… this…”
She didn’t finish, spinning on her heel and storming out of the kitchen. Her bedroom door slammed so hard the china rattled in the cupboard.
Margaret set the pan down and sank into a chair, hands trembling, eyes brimming with tears.
“Don’t take it to heart,” Victor said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “She’s upset about university. Didn’t get into her first choice, so now the whole world’s to blame.”
“Victor, she’s right,” Margaret whispered. “I’m not her real mother. I never will be.”
“Don’t be daft. Time will sort it out.”
Margaret smiled bitterly. *Time.* They’d been married four years now, and things with Emily had only gotten worse. At first, the girl had just been distant, cold. Then came the sarcastic remarks, the little digs. Now it was full-blown war.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have offered to pay her tuition?” Margaret asked.
“Why not? You meant well.”
“But she took it as me trying to buy her love.”
Victor sighed and sat beside her.
“I know it’s hard, Margaret. But Emily lost her mum at fourteen. She’s terrified someone will take her place.”
“I’m not trying to replace her mother. I just want us to live peacefully.”
“I know. And she’ll understand that eventually.”
Margaret nodded, but she wasn’t convinced. Every day in this house was a battle. Emily seemed to *look* for reasons to argue—whether it was Margaret’s cooking, where she put things, or even how loudly she spoke on the phone.
Loud music thumped from Emily’s room. The neighbours had complained more than once, but she never listened.
“Go tell her to turn it down,” Margaret asked.
“You tell her. You two need to talk.”
“After *this*?”
“Especially after this. Letting it fester won’t help.”
Reluctantly, Margaret stood and knocked on Emily’s door.
“Emily, can I come in?”
The music only got louder. She knocked harder.
“Emily, please—I need to talk to you.”
The door flew open. Emily stood there, eyes red and puffy.
“What do *you* want?”
“Please turn the music down. The neighbours are complaining.”
“I don’t care about the neighbours.”
“Emily, I know you’re upset—”
“You don’t know *anything*!” Emily exploded. “You think just because you offered money, I should be grateful? You’ll *never* be family!”
“I don’t expect you to love me. I just don’t want us to fight.”
“Then *leave*. This is *our* house—mine and Dad’s. *You’re* the one who doesn’t belong.”
The words cut deep. Margaret clenched her fists, forcing herself to stay calm.
“Your father loves me. I love him. We’re family now.”
“No!” Emily screamed. “*We* are family—me and Dad! You’re just… *here*! Don’t think I don’t know why you married him—because of the *house*!”
Margaret went pale.
“Who told you that?”
“Gran. Mum’s mum. She says you’re a gold-digger. That you latched onto Dad the second you heard he was a widower with a nice place.”
“That’s not true—”
“It *is*!” Emily stepped closer, eyes blazing. “You were forty, living in a bedsit. Then suddenly—*bam*—a man with a three-bed in Camden? Of *course* you married him!”
Every word felt like a slap. Margaret’s cheeks burned.
“I love your father—”
“Oh, sure. You love his *money*, his *house*. Him? You *tolerate* him.”
“Enough!” Margaret snapped. “You don’t get to speak to me like that!”
“I’ll say what I want! This is *my* home—you’re *nothing* here!”
Emily slammed the door in her face. The music blasted louder than ever.
Margaret stood in the hallway, shaking with anger and hurt. Emily’s words had struck a nerve. Yes, she *had* been forty when she met Victor. Yes, she’d lived in a cramped flat and dreamed of a proper home. But she’d married him for love—not convenience.
Victor found her in the bathroom, splashing water on her face.
“What happened? Emily’s screaming bloody murder.”
“She said I only married you for the house.”
His face darkened.
“Where’d she get that idea?”
“Your ex-mother-in-law. Apparently, Patricia’s been feeding her this rubbish.”
Victor exhaled sharply.
“Patricia never liked me. When I married you, she lost it completely.”
“Victor… maybe I *should* leave?” Margaret said quietly. “Look how much Emily’s hurting. I don’t want to come between you.”
“You’re *not* going anywhere,” he said firmly. “You’re my wife. If anyone’s got a problem with that, it’s *theirs* to deal with.”
“But Emily—”
“Emily needs to learn the world doesn’t revolve around her. People have a right to be happy.”
Margaret leaned into him. In his arms, she always felt safe. But alone with Emily? It was a warzone.
The next morning, Emily pointedly skipped breakfast. Later, she slammed the door on her way to uni. Margaret exhaled in relief—a few hours of peace.
She tidied up, made lunch, then settled at her sewing machine. She worked from home, taking alterations. It wasn’t much, but it paid the bills.
The doorbell rang. An older woman stood there, expression stern.
“Patricia?” Margaret frowned.
“Yes. May I come in?”
“Of course.”
Patricia marched into the living room and sat without waiting for an invitation.
“Would you like tea?” Margaret offered.
“No. I’m not here to socialise.”
“Why *are* you here?”
Patricia’s gaze swept the room.
“You’ve landed on your feet, haven’t you? From a bedsit to *this*.”
Margaret’s face burned.
“If you’ve come to insult me—”
“Not insult. Offer a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
Patricia pulled an envelope from her purse.
“Fifty thousand pounds. Yours. If you divorce Victor and disappear.”
Margaret stared.
“You’re *joking*.”
“Hardly. You’re tearing this family apart. Emily’s miserable, Victor’s changed—he used to be a devoted father. Now all he thinks about is *you*.”
“Victor loves me—”
“Victor’s blinded. It’ll pass. But while you’re here, that girl suffers. Don’t you feel *anything* for her?”
Margaret looked at the envelope, stomach churning. So everyone *did* think she was a gold-digger.
“Keep your money,” she said flatly.
“Think carefully. Fifty grand buys a nice flat. Independence.”
“I’m not *for sale*.”
“Everyone has a price. Seventy?”
“*Leave*.”
“A hundred. Final offer.”
Margaret stood and walked to the door.
“I said *go*.”
Patricia finally rose, scowling.
“You’re making a mistake. Emily will *never* accept you.”
“We’ll see.”
“Suit yourself. But when you change your mind—you know where I am.”
She left, the envelope still on the table. Margaret stared at it a long moment—then tossed it in the bin.
That evening, she told Victor about Patricia’s visit.
“She offered you *money*?” he said, stunned.
“A hundred grand to divorce you.”
His face went white with rage.
“How *dare* she? I’ll deal with her tomorrow.”
“Don’t. It’ll make things worse.”
“Margaret, I won’t let her *humiliate* you—”
“And what’ll you do? Ban her from seeing Emily?”
Victor fell silent. The truth hung between them—that would only escalate things.
Emily came home late,Eventually, they all learned that love wasn’t about replacing what was lost, but making space for something new—and though the road was rocky, they found their way, step by step, toward something that felt like family.
