**Diary Entry – 25th September**
The guests left, but the bitterness lingered.
“Mum, what on earth are you saying?” Emily slammed a dirty plate into the sink, the clatter sharp against the quiet. “Ungrateful? What exactly should I be thanking you for?”
“For everything I’ve sacrificed for you! For putting up with your father all those years for the sake of you kids! For going without just so you could have a proper education, decent clothes!” Margaret stood in the middle of the kitchen, her face flushed, twisting a tea towel in her hands.
“Mum, stop it! The guests just left, and you’re already on my case! What did I even do wrong? Was my hosting not good enough? The spread not lavish enough? The cake not homemade enough?”
“Not good enough—that’s exactly it!” Margaret spun back to the sink and began scrubbing cups with unnecessary force. “You sat there like a stranger while Patricia went on about her grandchildren. Didn’t say a word when Linda asked how Thomas was doing. Didn’t even say *thank you* when they complimented you!”
Emily rubbed her temples. Three hours of sitting at that table with her mother’s friends had left her head pounding. The endless prying, the comparisons, the unsolicited advice—always something to disapprove of.
“Mum, I’m thirty-five. A grown woman. I don’t have to smile and nod at every little thing.”
“Grown!” Margaret scoffed. “Grown women don’t live with their mothers at your age, for heaven’s sake.”
“I’m thirty-five, not forty! And I don’t *live off* you! I pay my share of the bills, buy groceries, clean, cook—”
“Cook!” Margaret turned, anger flashing in her eyes. “What do you cook? Pasta with sausages? Who made the roast today? Who prepped the potatoes? Who scrubbed this place spotless before they arrived?”
Emily slumped into a chair, drained. These endless accusations—worse than any shift at work.
“Fine, Mum. I’m a terrible daughter. What else do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say *thank you*!” Margaret slapped the table. “Just once—‘Thank you, Mum, for letting us stay here since the divorce. For not turning us out when I had nowhere else to go. For looking after Thomas, taking him to the doctor, picking him up from school.’ But no! You act like I *owe* you this!”
A lump rose in Emily’s throat. Yes, her mother helped with Thomas. Yes, she’d lived in her mum’s house for three years now. But hadn’t she tried to repay her? Worked two jobs just to contribute?
“Mum, I *do* thank you. Maybe not in words, but in everything else. I don’t ask you for money. I pull my weight.”
“Pull your weight!” Margaret sat opposite her, still gripping the tea towel. “Do you know what Patricia said today? That her Charlotte’s met a new man—well-off, decent. Already invited her and the kids to move in. And you? Three years alone, just work and home, no life of your own.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Emily snapped. “I can’t just *order* a man from a catalogue! If I meet someone decent, fine. If not, I’ll manage.”
“Manage!” Margaret stood, pacing. “And what about me? D’you think I’ll live forever? I’m seventy-two! How long have I got left? Then where will you be—alone with a child to raise?”
“Thomas isn’t a child. He’s thirteen.”
“Thirteen—the worst age! He needs a father’s influence. What’s he got? A mother who’s never home and a grandmother raising him.”
Emily pushed back her chair. Same old script. The litany of her failures, the should-haves, the *if only*s.
“I’m going to bed. Early start tomorrow.”
“Of course—run away!” Margaret called after her. “Always do when things get hard!”
Emily stopped in the doorway. That stung—because some part of it was true.
“I’m not running. I’m just tired of this. Nothing I do is ever enough.”
“*Enough*!” Margaret stepped closer. “Then tell me—why *are* you living with me at thirty-five? No home of your own, no family? Why’s my grandson growing up without a father?”
“Because life happened!” Emily burst out. “Not all of us get a silver spoon, Mum! I had to raise my son, work, not chase after men!”
“Chase!” Margaret gasped. “Is that what you call trying to have a life?”
“That’s enough!” Emily turned and walked away, her mother’s voice trailing behind her.
In her room, Thomas looked up from his homework. “You and Gran arguing again?”
“No, love. Just talking.”
His doubtful look said it all. At thirteen, he knew better.
“I heard shouting. Both of you.”
Emily ruffled his hair—dark like hers, eyes grey like his father’s. Too grown-up for his age.
“Adults disagree sometimes. Doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
“What about?”
She sat on the edge of the bed. How to explain what she barely understood herself—the guilt, the hurt, the constant *not good enough*?
“Gran thinks I’m not doing right by her. I think I’m doing my best.”
“You *are* doing your best.” He was solemn. “You work hard. Help with my homework. Cook for us. You don’t scream like some mums do.”
“Thanks, love.” Tears pricked her eyes. “What did you think of the guests today?”
He made a face. “They kept bragging about their grandkids. Then started asking why you’re single. Gran got upset.”
“Upset?”
“Yeah. When Aunt Pat said her daughter married well, Gran went red and started saying how great *you* are. They all looked… doubtful.”
So that was it. Not just her silence at dinner—her mother had felt humiliated. Ashamed of a daughter still “unsettled” at thirty-five.
“Tom… do you ever miss having a dad?”
He thought a long moment. “Sometimes. When I need help lifting something, or when the lads tease me about fishing trips. But I know he’s not coming back. You’re enough.”
Her chest tightened. Thirteen—too wise, too alone.
“If I met someone… would you mind?”
“If he’s nice, no. Just don’t let him hurt you. Or kick me out.”
“No one’s kicking you out,” she said fiercely. “You’re everything to me.”
He smiled and turned back to his books. Emily stayed, replaying the day.
The guests arrived at two. Margaret had dressed up, even got her hair done. The table was laid like a banquet—roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, trifle.
Patricia, Linda, and Barbara—old work friends, all retired, all living through their children’s triumphs.
At first, talk was pleasant—NHS queues, the price of petrol, the new Prime Minister. Then Patricia brought out photos of her grandkids. Linda countered with *her* granddaughter getting into Oxford. Barbara’s son had bought her a smartphone—video calls every day!
Then the eyes turned to Margaret. What could she say? That her divorced daughter lived with her? That her grandson, though bright, had no father?
Margaret praised Emily’s work ethic, her help around the house. But the pity in their voices was unmistakable.
“And her love life?” Linda asked kindly.
“Not… settled,” Margaret said tightly.
“Men these days,” Barbara sighed. “Either drunk, jobless, or married.”
“Maybe she’s too picky?” Patricia suggested.
Emily’s face burned. Discussed like faulty goods.
She *had* tried to date since the divorce. First there was James—widowed, two kids. Seemed perfect—until she realised he wanted a live-in nanny, not a partner.
Then came Daniel, younger, childless, good job. But Thomas unsettled him. “Can’t stand having a kid around all the time,” he’d said before vanishing.
And before that, Mark—borrowed two grand in month one and ghosted her.
After that, she’d focused on work, Thomas, surviving her mum’s disappointment.
Tonight proved it: to Margaret, an unmarried daughter at thirty-five was a failure.
Emily stood by the window. Rain drizzled outside. Autumn coming, then winter. Another year under her mother’s roof, another year of judgment.
Or—was her mother right? Maybe it was time to leave. Rent a flat, stand on her own feet.
“Mum.” Thomas’s voice was quiet. “Should we get our own place?”
She turned. His eyes were serious.
“Why d’you ask?”
“Gran seems… tired of us. Like we’re making her unhappy.”
“We’re not, love. She just has her own ideas of how a”But perhaps it’s time we made our own way—just you and me, starting fresh.”
