**Diary Entry**
I am a terrible mother-in-law. The thought gnaws at me like an old wound. They say it runs in our family, but that’s no excuse. I raised two children—a son and a daughter—alone in a small village near Nottingham after my husband passed. Without help, without support. Thank goodness my eldest, Daniel, was fourteen then and could manage the chores. Without him, I don’t know how we’d have survived.
Life wasn’t easy. When the children grew up and left, I stayed behind. The garden fed me, the hens laid eggs—I got by. My children built their lives in the city. My youngest, Emily, married a surgeon. I was happy for her—she had everything I never could. She moved to Bristol, miles from our village. Word has it she lives in a grand house, not like my creaky little cottage. She visited sometimes with her child, but we never quite got along. She’d bring gadgets and gifts, but all I wanted was a proper chat. She was always rushing off. A phone call every few months, a quick “How are you?” and then goodbye. She has three children now, but I’ve only ever seen them in photos.
Daniel married a girl from a poor background—Sophie, an orphan with no education. At first, they rented a flat in Manchester, but when money got tight, they asked to stay with me. How could I refuse?
Sophie wasn’t lazy, but city life had spoiled her. The countryside was foreign to her. I saw straight away she didn’t know how things worked here. And I wasn’t kind about it. If firewood needed fetching, I sent her. If supper needed cooking, I expected her to manage. Just like I had to when I was younger. While she fumbled about, I doted on my granddaughter—bright as a button, just like her father. I adored her, spoiled her rotten. But now I see: the more I loved that child, the harsher I was with her mother. Shame burns in me for that.
I don’t know if it was because of me or just their own hopes, but Daniel decided to take Sophie abroad for work, leaving their five-year-old with me. I didn’t protest. There was food, clothes enough. But my heart ached—my son so far away, and Sophie with him. What else could I do?
A year and a half passed. In that time, my granddaughter became my little shadow. I taught her everything—songs, how to tend the garden. We were inseparable. Then Daniel and Sophie returned, took her, and moved back to the city. No one asked me, but what right had I to object? It was their family.
Four years drifted by. Daniel called sometimes, letting me speak to my granddaughter. But they never visited. I could feel Sophie’s resentment lingering. Life went on. Neighbors helped, but the house crumbled. The roof leaked, and I had no money to fix it. Winter meant stuffing rags into gaps, but it never held. I tried not to complain, but worry gnawed at me.
Last month, Daniel’s family surprised me with a visit. They looked well—my granddaughter grown into a proper young lady. They’d done well abroad, invested wisely. Pride swelled in me—both my children had made something of themselves. But it was Sophie who shocked me most. At supper, she couldn’t stop talking about how my granddaughter still remembered everything I’d taught her. She thanked me, as if my harshness had never happened.
Later, we spoke alone. I gathered my courage and apologised. Sophie just smiled and said she’d learned a lot from me. They stayed two days, left gifts, then left. The next morning, builders arrived with bricks and tools, saying the “missus” had ordered the roof and fence repaired. I knew at once—Sophie. They did a fine job, and when I tried to thank them, they laughed. “Already paid for,” they said.
Shame still eats at me. I was too hard, too cold. But kindness found me anyway. Sophie forgave me, and her warmth thawed something in my heart. I see now—even the roughest of beginnings can mend. Though not all stories end so neatly.