**Diary Entry**
I’d finally had enough.
“That’s it! My patience is gone!” Oliver barked the moment we stepped inside our flat. His voice was sharp, the kind of tone that made my stomach twist. “Will you ever learn to hold your tongue?”
“What on earth did I say wrong?” I shot back, indignant.
“You’re seriously asking?” His smirk was anything but kind. “You, my dear, have crossed every line imaginable. It’s time you learned some respect.”
“Oliver, what exactly is the problem?” I took a step back, wary.
“The problem is your behaviour—it’s not even passable! You’ve got a mouth on you, acting like you’re some high-and-mighty princess!”
“Not all of us can be towering oafs like you!” I snapped. “A woman is supposed to be petite and refined!”
“And quiet, obedient, and submissive—qualities you sorely lack!” He unbuckled his belt, yanking it free. “You’re about to learn the old-fashioned way.”
“Have you lost your mind?” I retreated further. “You’re not actually going to hit me?”
“Discipline, Sophie. That’s what this is. And punishment for that sharp tongue of yours. You nearly gave my mother a heart attack today!”
“Well, maybe she shouldn’t spout nonsense! Why should I take off my shoes—which, by the way, I brought in a bag—just to wear her musty slippers? I’m not parading around in flats at my height!”
“Those are perfectly good guest slippers!” he growled, advancing.
“And since when are guests expected to wash dishes and scrub the stove?” I tilted my head, defiant. “I don’t take orders well.”
“Which is exactly why you’re about to learn your place! You’re my wife, not some spoilt princess. Time you showed some respect—for me and my parents!”
“Maybe they should act decently first!” I darted into the bedroom. “They’re rude, and I’m just supposed to stay quiet? You should’ve stood up for me! Look at me—I’m tiny! And they still had the nerve to bully me!” I pouted but kept my eyes locked on him.
“If you acted according to your size and station, no one would dare! But no, you’ve always got an opinion. Well, I’ll beat it out of you!”
“Please, don’t!” My voice wavered. “You’ll hurt me!”
“You bet I will,” he said, almost gleeful. “You’ll remember your place for the rest of your life. Petite little thing, acting like the Queen herself!”
“Stop!” I shrieked, pressing myself against the wall, curling into a ball. “Please, don’t!”
He closed the distance, belt raised.
“Oh, I will. Spoilt brats like you need it—otherwise, you’ll never learn.”
—
Meeting Oliver’s parents had left an impression.
Edward, who insisted I call him “Papa Eddie,” had gripped Oliver’s hand like a vice before pulling him into a bear hug.
“Son! I’d do anything for you! Always wanted a lad—Margaret only gave me a daughter, then called it quits! Dreamed of fishing trips, football matches, hunting—proper bloke stuff! None of this frilly nonsense. But with you, son-in-law, we’ll make up for lost time!”
“Glad to hear it, Papa Eddie,” Oliver replied awkwardly. “Though I’m not much of an angler.”
“Neither am I!” Eddie bellowed. “But now I’ve got a son! I’ll teach you everything—fishing, whatever you like!”
“If there’s time…”
“You don’t understand how happy you’ve made me!” His eyes gleamed with tears. “With these two—” he jerked his thumb at me and Margaret, “—there’s nothing to talk about! But you and me? Cars, space, moaning about women ruling the roost!”
Margaret eased him away, ushering Oliver to the table.
“Apologies—it’s a sore subject. Five sisters, and he works in a female-dominated office. Nearly walked out of the delivery room when I didn’t produce a son. At least now he’s got you to vent to.”
“I’ll do my best,” Oliver said humbly.
“I’m sure you will,” Margaret smiled. “You’ve no idea how he longed for a boy. Tried turning Sophie into a tomboy—thank goodness I stepped in. A girl should be gentle, soft-spoken, refined.” She shot Eddie a look. “Not whatever you were aiming for.”
Eddie scowled at them but beamed at Oliver.
“See?” Margaret sighed. “Still holds a grudge. Sometimes he’ll rush in, excited to share something, then realise it’s ‘not women’s talk.’ Waves it off, curses under his breath, and storms out. Some days, we barely exchange two words. But you’ve brightened his life, Oliver.” She patted his hand. “Though if he becomes a nuisance, just say so. I’ll rein him in.”
“No, not at all! I’m sure we’ll get on.”
“Good.”
True to form, Eddie monopolised Oliver, unloading his grievances.
“You’ve no idea how thrilled I am to have another man in the family! Together, we’ll outnumber them! Living here’s impossible—can’t even swear without a lecture! ‘This isn’t a barracks!’ ‘Wear proper clothes!’ And Sophie’s just as bad—‘Ew, Daddy!’” He dragged a finger across his throat. “Makes me sick!”
“Delicate creatures, what can you do?” Oliver quipped.
“Delicate? More like transparent! They diet, and suddenly the fridge is full of kale and spinach! Might as well beg the neighbours for a decent meal!”
“I meant temperament.”
“Ugh, don’t get me started! Dragged me to the theatre—absolute drivel. People loving, hating, suffering in turns! I snuck off at intermission. They chewed my ear off after! Now I just chauffeur them to galleries and concerts. Nearly died of culture!”
“Women are supposed to be that way,” Oliver said.
“I married Margaret for her quietness—thought she’d give me a son. Instead—” He waved dismissively. “At least she brought you into the fold.”
“We’ll live separately after marrying,” Oliver reminded him.
“Brilliant! Lock your refined lady in, let her cook. I’ll do the same. Then it’s just us, living like proper men!”
From Eddie’s rants, Oliver gathered he’d never wanted a daughter. Margaret had raised me, and we were alike—petite, sharp-witted, educated, and unafraid to voice opinions.
—
“Sophie,” Oliver once pleaded, “let’s not argue. Art’s subjective.”
“No, let’s! Truth must prevail!”
“Even if it means we fight? What does it matter—Monet, Manet, or Kandinsky?”
“Just admit you’re conceding!” I stuck out my tongue, laughing.
Then came bigger clashes.
“Was it so hard to stay quiet? Stash those boxes on the balcony, toss them later!” Oliver groaned.
“If you were going to bin them, why bring them home?”
“God, must you upset my mum? We’re not even thinking of kids yet, but she’s sentimental!”
“Then she should keep it to herself!”
“It’s four boxes of my old things—not a global crisis!”
“No thanks! I’ll buy new things for our child, not dusty relics from your mum’s attic!”
“Did you have to tell her that? She needed sedatives after!”
“Why is this on me? You could’ve refused! ‘Mum, we don’t need these.’ But no—you cooed like a toddler!”
“Enough!” Oliver snapped. “I’m apologising to her. And you’d better not provoke her again—an apology would be nice too.”
“For your sake. But not today. I need to calm down.”
I never meshed with my in-laws. Oliver often had to smooth things over, begging me for half-hearted apologies.
Two years passed. Then, after another apology trip, his parents changed tactics.
“How long will you let that wife humiliate you?” his dad demanded. “A grown man, grovelling for her?”
“That insufferable upstart!” his mum added.
“Son, we get it—love, future, all that. But her behaviour’s appalling. If strangers see you kowtowing to her, they’ll think you’re weak!”
“What do you expect me to do? That’s just how she is!”
“There’s a cure for wilfulness,” his dad said darkly. “Her father didn’t discipline her? Then you must.”
“Your father straightened me out,” his mum admitted. “Now I know who’
