**Diary Entry – 12th March**
Ever since my daughter-in-law humiliated me in front of everyone, I’ve made up my mind—she won’t set foot in my house again.
When my son first brought Emily home to meet us, she seemed quiet and polite. On the surface, nothing to fault—pleasant, well-spoken, smiling. But something inside me prickled with unease from the start. No real reason, just a gut feeling.
That evening, Emily talked endlessly—far too much for a first meeting. She went on about neighbours, friends, old coworkers, even schoolteachers. Not one kind word. Everything was laced with sarcasm, veiled insults. I put it down to nerves, thinking she was rambling out of awkwardness. I told myself—wait and see.
Two months later, they married. A small wedding, and Emily’s side only had her mum and two friends. No brother, no relatives—not even a phone call to congratulate her. Later, I learned she hadn’t spoken to her father in years—her mother barred him from seeing her after the divorce. He paid child support, but Emily was raised on nothing but resentment. Not my family, not my concern, I thought. As long as they were happy.
After the wedding, they moved in with us. The house is big enough, so it wasn’t a problem. I worked long hours, never meddled. But soon, things began to grate: Emily had no sense of basic tidiness. She never cleaned, left dishes piled up, couldn’t even keep her own room in order. I’d come back from a business trip to a kitchen full of dirty plates and crumbs everywhere. And guess who dealt with it? Me. Exhausted, but scrubbing the sink anyway.
Emily always had an excuse: “I didn’t have time,” “I was too busy,” before settling down with tea to gossip about who’d divorced, who was ill, who owed whom money. No help—just chatter and nastiness. At first, I bit my tongue. Then I snapped and told my son straight: “If she won’t lift a finger and you won’t step in, then you clean up.” Something had to change.
But then came the final straw. Our neighbour pulled me aside and repeated what Emily had been saying—spreading filth about me all over the street. Claiming I’d made her life hell, forced her to slave away cleaning, that I was some tyrant of a mother-in-law. Worse still were the things she said about my son—mocking him as spineless and useless. It made me sick to hear.
That evening, I sat them both down in the kitchen. At first, Emily denied everything. Then, when she realised she’d been caught, came the theatrics—sobbing that I’d hated her from the start, storming off to pack her things. My son… just sat there. Didn’t defend me. Didn’t stop her.
Now Emily’s back at her mum’s, and for the first time in ages, the house is peaceful. My son flits back and forth, visiting her. I’ve made it clear—if they reconcile, they’ll live elsewhere. Rented flat, her mother’s place, I don’t care. But not here. I’ve had enough. I work too hard to play unpaid housemaid to a girl who repaid my kindness by dragging my name through the mud.
After the way Emily shamed me in front of the whole neighbourhood, I’ve nothing left to say to her. And I won’t have her back here—not even for a minute.
The more I think about it, the less I wonder why she’s estranged from her brother, why even her own family keeps their distance. Maybe it’s not about her parents. Maybe it’s just the way she is.