**Diary Entry**
*If cooking is such a burden for you, maybe you should leavewell manage without you.* Those were the words my mother-in-law threw at me, backed by my own husband. *If its so difficult for you, why dont you just go and let us handle things ourselves?*
I never imagined my life could shatter so completely in a single moment. Betrayal didnt come from strangers but from the people I trusted most. One conversation with Margaret Whitakermy mother-in-lawand I knew I had only myself to rely on. It all began, absurdly, with a simple remark: *Mum needs to rest. Shes exhausted. Couldnt you leave for a few weeks so she isnt disturbed?* Thats what my husband said. The man Id dreamed of growing old with. The one Id fed, clothed, supported in every way. And for what?
Jamesmy husbandwas away on another business trip. He worked as a technician for factories and often travelled across England. I never complainedhe earned a decent wage, and we lived comfortably. We stayed in my two-bedroom flat, inherited from my aunt. He never objected; I had my peace. But every time he left, his mother would arrive unannounced. Margaret Whitaker. No knock, no warning. Shed appear at the doorstep like a storm, immediately dictating her ruleswhat to cook, how to clean, where to store the linens, which brands to buy.
I stayed quiet. I tried to be polite. I told myself she was old, lonelythat I could offer kindness. Instead of gratitude, I got scorn. *You cant even make proper soup. Theres dust everywhere. How will you raise children if you cant even peel potatoes?* Then it worsened. She demanded I leave. My own home. So she, tired and miserable, could *finally get some sleep.* Sleep! In my flat! Where would I go? A friends? A hotel?
So I called James, trembling with hope. I told him everything. I waited for his support. And he wasnt even surprised. *Mum really needs the break. Be a love and bear with it. Go away for a bitwell talk later.* He didnt ask where Id stay. Didnt offer to cover a room. Not a word to remind me I was his wife, the one who kept our home, the mother of his future children.
That was the end. I understoodthere was no love left. Just a useful woman, good for cooking, cleaning, serving. No tenderness. No respect. I told him, *If you want to stay with your mother, stay. But Im filing for divorce.* He didnt argue. Silence. Days later, he returned, collected his things without a word, and left to join her in her hometown. And I stayed. In my flat. Alone. Empty.
I didnt cry. I was past that. My tears had dried the day he chose her over me. Now, I live. Quietly. No arguments. No criticism. No pain. Sometimes, a thought of him tightens my chest. But then I remember his voice telling me to leave. And it gets easier. Because I didnt walk away. He did. The love left. I stayed. Strong. Whole. True.
Now, every morning, I wake knowing the day is mine. And no oneno Margaret Whitakerwill ever dictate how I live again.
