**Diary Entry 7th June, 2024**
*»I wont live with a strangers grandmother.»*
Thats what my son said, looking me straight in the eye.
*»Mum, you tell her. Im tired of explaining!»* Emily fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth, avoiding my gaze.
*»Whats there to explain?»* James set his mug of tea down and sat across from me. *»Ive made myself clearIm moving out next week. The flats sorted, deposit paid.»*
*»But, love, how will we manage here?»* I began, but he cut me off with a sharp wave of his hand.
*»Mum, Im twenty-seven. Dont you think its time I lived on my own?»*
From the next room came a muffled cough, then the clatter of something falling, followed by irritated muttering.
*»See?»* I sighed. *»Shes dropped something again. Id better check.»*
*»Dont.»* James put a hand on my shoulder. *»Let her sort it out. Youre not her carer.»*
*»Jamie, shes elderly»*
*»Mum, enough!»* His voice hardened. *»Shes nothing to you. Nothing at all! Dads mother, who never had a kind word for you in her life.»*
I winced, as if struck. It was trueMargaret had never accepted me. Twenty-eight years ago, when we married, shed been cold, dismissive. Told the neighbours her son couldve done better, that I wasnt good enough, that I had a sharp tongue. After James was born, she declared shed raise him herselfhis mother was too inexperienced, too dim.
*»Remember what she called you?»* James pressed, seeing his words land. *»That wife of yours. Not even your name. Just that wife. And when Dad died»*
*»Stop.»* My voice wavered. *»Dont bring that up.»*
But he wouldnt let it go. Three years since the funeral, and the memories still stung. Margaret had outright claimed the house belonged to her sonso now it was hers. That Emily and her *boy* ought to find somewhere else. That shed suffered enough from *these outsiders*.
*»And who picked her up when she had that stroke?»* James demanded. *»Who called the ambulance? Who sat by her hospital bed?»*
*»Enough,»* I said, standing to clear the table.
*»No, its not enough! You see what shes doingbanging things at night, dropping pans so you cant sleep. Blasting the telly. Those snide remarks about the food, the wrong medicines»*
*»Emily!»* Margarets voice rang out. *»Emily, come here!»*
I turned automatically, but James grabbed my wrist.
*»Where are you going? If she needs something, she can get up herself.»*
*»James, shes ill»*
*»Ill? Shes fitter than both of us! Shes just used to bossing you about. Dad coddled her, and now you do.»*
*»Emily!»* Sharper now. *»Are you deaf?»*
I pulled free and went to her. Margaret lay in bed, blankets drawn to her chin. A newspaper sprawled on the floor.
*»Pick that up,»* she ordered, nodding at it. *»I want to read.»*
*»Margaret, have you got your glasses?»*
*»Of course I have. Think Im blind?»* She fumbled for them on the nightstand. *»And fetch me tea. Properly hot this time. Yesterdays was lukewarm dishwater.»*
Silently, I retrieved the paper and went to put the kettle on. James sat at the table, glowering.
*»There you go again, jumping to her tune.»*
*»Dont start,»* I said wearily.
*»Mum, listen to me.»* He leaned in. *»Im moving. And youre coming with me.»*
I froze, kettle in hand.
*»What?»*
*»Its simple. Two-bedroom flatplenty of space. Youll have a proper life, no more walking on eggshells.»*
*»And what about her?»*
*»She can manage. People reap what they sow.»*
*»Jamie, I cant. Shell be alone.»*
*»Good. Maybe then shell realise what your help meant.»*
I set the kettle down, gripping the countertop. Guilt and relief twisted inside me.
*»Mum, remember what she said after Dads funeral?»* Jamess voice softened. *»You can start packingthe house is mine now. Remember?»*
I nodded. That moment was seared into my memory. Wed returned from the cemetery, changed out of black, sat with tea. Then Margaret, silent all day, announced everything would change. That we were *in the way*. That it was time we found our own place.
*»And who refused to leave?»* James went on. *»Who said youd care for her, no matter what?»*
*»I did,»* I admitted. *»But it was different then. Shed just buried her son»*
*»Mum, its been three years. Three years of cooking, cleaning, hospital runs. Has she ever thanked you?»*
I thought. Not once. Only complaintssoup too salty, laundry poorly done, wrong prescriptions. Last week, shed told Mrs. Thompson next door she lived with *strangers* who were *waiting for her to die*.
*»Emily! Wheres my tea?»*
*»Coming!»* I called, but James blocked my path.
*»No. Sit down.»*
*»James»*
*»Please. We need to talk properly.»*
Reluctantly, I sat. He took my hands.
*»Mum, I wont live with a strangers grandmother,»* he said, holding my gaze. *»And neither should you. Youre fifty-twoyouve got your whole life ahead. Why waste it on someone who doesnt value you?»*
*»Shes not a stranger. Shes your grandmother.»*
*»Grandmother?»* He laughed bitterly. *»She never loved me. Remember her telling everyone I took after youthat temper? When I got into uni, she said it was a waste of money, that Id amount to nothing.»*
I stayed quiet. I remembered every cruel word, every time my husband had brushed it off*shes difficult, but she means well*.
*»Emily!»* Margarets voice turned shrill. *»Have you died in there?»*
James stood abruptly and went to her. I heard him say, *»Gran, Mums busy. If you want tea, make it yourself.»*
*»How dare you speak to me like that?»* she spluttered. *»Send her in!»*
*»No. And were moving out next week.»*
Silence. Then, faintly: *»Where?»*
*»Our own place. Me and Mum.»*
Another pause. *»…And me?»*
James returned, satisfied. *»Done. Now let her stew.»*
*»You shouldve talked to me first»*
*»Whats to discuss? Youve said a hundred times youre exhausted.»*
True. Especially after shed called me a *freeloader* in front of the Wilsons.
*»But shes old, frail»*
*»Shes seventy-five, not ancient. She plays up her frailty when it suits her.»*
From the bedroom came muffled sobs. I rose, but James shook his head.
*»Dont. Its an act. Watchshell switch to guilt next.»*
*»What if shes genuinely upset?»*
*»Genuine?»* He scoffed. *»Where were her tears when she threw us out? Where was her pity then?»*
I remembered. Dry-eyed, triumphant.
*»And after the stroke?»* he pressed. *»Who saved her? Called the ambulance? Ran her to appointments?»*
*»Me.»*
*»Exactly. And her gratitude? Back to nitpicking the second she recovered.»*
The crying stopped. Eerie silence.
*»See?»* James nodded toward the room. *»No audience, no performance.»*
I drank water slowly, thoughts churning. He was right. Margaret had never loved me, never softened. Yet leaving her alone felt cruel.
*»Mum, I know its hard,»* he said gently. *»Youre kind. But think of yourself. Dont you want to live?»*
I did. Desperately. Without tension, without daily scorn. To wake up and not brace for criticism.
*»Remember how it was when Dad was alive?»* he asked. *»We talked, went to the theatre. When did you last go out?»*
I hadnt. Three years of work, chores, errands for Margaret. My friend Louise had invited me to the cinematwicebut Id said no. Couldnt leave her alone too long.
*»Mum, just try it,»* he urged. *»Well move, see how it goes. If she truly cant cope, well rethink.»*
*»And if something happens?»*
*»Shes got a phone. Neighbours. She can pay for a carer if she chooses.»*
Footsteps shuffled down the hall. Margaret appeared in the doorway, leaning heavily on the frame.
*»So,»* she rasped, *»youre abandoning me?»*
*»Gran, were living separately,»* James said evenly. *»Like you suggested three years ago.»*
She blinked, thrown. *»That was different»*
*»How?»* He stepped closer. *»Same house, same people. What changed?»*
*»Im frail now! I need help!»*
*»Then maybe you shouldve thought of that earlier,»* he shot back. *»Before driving away the person whos looked after you.»*
Margaret turned to me. *»Emily, you wont leave me? Im helpless»*
I said nothing, torn between duty and the weight of years of slights.
*»Mum,»* James murmured, *»tell her the truth. How exhausted you are. How it hurts to be called an outsider in your own home.»*
*»I never said that!»* Margaret protested.
*»No? What did you tell Mrs. Thompson? That you live with *strangers* waiting for you to die?»*
She faltered. *»II didnt mean»*
*»Then what *did* you mean?»* James pressed. *»Thirty years Mums been here. Thirty years of your barbs. And still you treat her like an intruder.»*
I went to the window, my chest tight.
*»Margaret,»* I said quietly, *»do you remember what you said to me three years ago?»*
*»Emily, I was grieving»*
*»You said, Start packingthe house is mine. Remember?»*
Silence.
*»And that youd had enough of *this outsider family.* Recall that?»*
*»Emily, I didnt»*
*»Intentions dont matter now.»* I turned to face her. *»Only the words. And we remember them.»*
Margaret sank onto a chair, suddenly small.
*»But Im ill I need care»*
*»You do,»* I agreed. *»But why must it come from the people youve spent decades pushing away?»*
She twisted her dressing gown in her hands.
*»Margaret,»* I went on, *»you made sure I knew I didnt belong here. Why, now that you need me, should I stay?»*
*»Because because its right,»* she whispered.
*»Right for whom?»* James cut in. *»You? What about whats right for Mum?»*
Her eyes filled with unexpected tears. *»James, youre my grandson»*
*»A grandson you never loved. One you said would *never amount to anything.*»*
*»I I didnt think youd remember»*
*»We remember everything.»*
Something in me snapped thena thread holding up too much for too long.
*»Heres whats happening, Margaret,»* I said, calm and firm. *»Were leaving next week.»*
She flinched. *»Emily»*
*»Not Emily. Mrs. Whitmore. And yes, were going. Youll have the house to yourselfjust as you wanted.»*
*»How will I manage?»*
*»How would *we* have managed,»* I asked, *»if youd thrown us out?»*
She bowed her head. *»Perhaps we could reconsider»*
*»No.»* I shook my head. *»Its too late for that. The decisions made.»*
And it was. In that moment, at the kitchen table, watching her hunched form, I chose myself. A life without walking on eggshells. A home where my son could bring friends without shame. Mornings without dread.
*»Mum,»* James squeezed my shoulder, *»Im proud of you.»*
I nodded. And for the first time in years, I smiledreally smiled.
**Lesson learned:** Kindness isnt limitless. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is walk away.
