*Diary Entry*
The kitchen was warm, the scent of fresh tea in the air as I wiped down the counter in our little house on the outskirts of Manchester. The front door banged open, and my husband, James, stumbled inside, his face pale, eyes wild.
“What’s happened?” I asked, my pulse spiking at the look on his face.
“It’s the car,” he muttered, collapsing onto a chair, gripping his hair.
“Are you hurt?” I rushed to him, scanning for injuries.
“Fine,” he mumbled, avoiding my gaze.
Then, like a storm rolling in, his mother, Margaret, barged in, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
“I know about the car!” she snapped, glaring at me.
“Mum, how?” James stammered, standing.
“Not in front of *her*,” Margaret hissed, jerking her chin at me like I was an intruder.
“James, what’s going on?” My chest tightened.
We’d met a year ago, moved in together six months later. His parents had been part of his life from the start. I’d first met Margaret “by chance” in Selfridges—though nothing about it had felt accidental. She’d appeared the moment we walked in, as if waiting.
“Well? Introduce us!” she demanded, sizing me up. “Tell me about yourself. I’ll decide if you’re good enough for my son. No serious relationship happens without my approval.”
“Mum, this is Eleanor. Eleanor, this is my mother, Margaret,” James said stiffly.
“Pleasure,” I managed politely.
“We’ll see about that,” she sniffed. “What do you do? Hunting for rich husbands? My son’s not some purse for you to empty!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said coolly.
“Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?” she huffed.
“Cheeky? Or just not bowing down? If you want my CV—education, job, savings—ask properly.”
Margaret’s nostrils flared.
“Eleanor, if you’re going to be rude—” James started.
“I’ll wait upstairs. Find me when she *allows* it,” I said, walking off.
He found me later in a café nursing a flat white. I didn’t ask what they’d discussed; he didn’t volunteer it. Only later did I learn they’d argued.
“Tea?” I offered.
“Yeah. Fancy a bite? A scone or something?”
“Already ate while I waited.”
Meeting his father was immediate. Turned out, the man had been waiting in the car while Margaret interrogated me. Once James left to find me, she’d called him in.
“This is my dad, Edward. Dad, Eleanor,” James introduced.
I nodded politely.
“Good taste, son,” Edward murmured to James.
Margaret shot him a filthy look.
“Could do with a cuppa,” Edward said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Right, love. What’ll you have, Eleanor?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
“Why bother? Our boy’s already stuffed her full of treats!” Margaret sneered.
“Enough,” Edward sighed.
The conversation might’ve spiraled, but my phone rang—work.
“Sorry, I’ve got to go. Lovely meeting you,” I said, standing.
“Charming girl,” Edward remarked as I left.
“You’ve no idea,” Margaret muttered.
Six months passed. I didn’t see his parents again—thankfully. Mine adored James. We married soon after, moved into his flat.
“A wife belongs with her husband,” he’d said. “Besides, my place is proper, not like yours with your parents.”
“Fine,” I’d agreed, though I’d wanted us to rent together. Maybe later.
At the wedding, Margaret stole the show, boasting about James—and herself. Her “gift” was the car, presented like some royal decree.
“It’s parked outside—take it whenever! Nothing but the best for my boy!” she crowed, showing off photos. The guests oohed and aahed.
We took it. James drove it mostly. Then we learned—it was *his* name on the loan, *his* name on the insurance. I didn’t care; my old Rover ran fine, and Dad helped with repairs.
Life was good—until the crash. James lost control, wrecked the car.
“Insured, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Not like this,” he said grimly.
“What do you mean?”
“My fault. Don’t ask. Need cash. Maybe sell your car?”
“No. I need it for work. Not carrying tools on the Tube, am I?”
“What then? I’m drowning here!”
“Drowning? I thought it was just the car.”
“Got sacked today. Lost my temper. And the loan—”
“The *what*?” I froze. “Your *mum’s* wedding gift was *your* debt? You *knew*? And my parents gave us actual money—for a holiday!”
“Don’t start,” he snapped. “Just help fix this.”
“Get a job. Take another loan. Sell something.”
“You’ve got savings!”
“Spent it fixing my car. Barely enough left for groceries,” I lied. I had money—just not for *her* gift.
“You never said!”
“I *did*. You were too busy with *Mummy*.”
The doorbell rang. Margaret stood there, thunderous.
“I’ve heard *everything*! We’re sorting this *now*!”
“Mum, how—?”
“Not in front of *her*,” she said, jerking her head at me.
“James, *what*?” My patience frayed.
“None of your business,” he said.
“Like hell it isn’t!”
“Stop nagging!” Margaret cut in. “This is *family* business. *You* just pay up—loan’s due!”
“Pay for *your* mess? *Brilliant*.”
“You should be grateful! Living in *his* flat, spending *his* money while he’s in debt!”
“Debt *she* saddled him with!”
“Sell your junk and fix the car!”
“I *won’t*.”
“I *told* you, James! Should’ve married Lucy!”
“Who’s *Lucy*?” I stared at him.
“Just a friend. Mum introduced us—I was teaching her to drive. She crashed it. She’s in hospital.”
“How tragic. She need cash too?”
“As if!” Margaret scoffed. “She owns *two* flats! What do *you* have? Pay up or *leave*!”
“Right. *Lucy* can pay for everything—loan, repairs, your jobless son *and* you.”
“*Jobless*?” Margaret paled.
“Didn’t he mention? Chat amongst yourselves. I’m off.”
“Go on, then!” she spat. “James, agree with me!”
“Yeah. If she won’t help, she can go,” he muttered.
He didn’t think I’d leave. But I packed my things, loaded my car, and tossed the flat keys into the hall.
“Margaret—Lucy’s got *two* flats, yeah?” I asked, pausing at the door.
“Yes,” she sneered.
“I’ve got *four*. Rented out. Work. Parents’ business too. Only child. *Clear*? Goodbye.”
Her jaw dropped. “*What*?”
“Good luck with Lucy. I’ll file for divorce myself.”
The door slammed shut.
