**Diary Entry**
Some people have no shame—especially ex-mothers-in-law. Three years she showed no interest in me or my son. Not a call, not a word, not even a holiday greeting. Now suddenly, she’s decided I must “forgive” her son and take him back. Insists our boy “needs his father.” Wants to stage some grand reconciliation. Where was she when I was sat on the floor with a screaming baby in my arms, drowning in the debts her precious boy left behind?
I was twenty when I married Oliver. Charming, handsome, full of grand promises—I saw him through rose-tinted glasses and believed every word. He spoke beautifully about our future, his “business ventures,” success, a house with a white picket fence. Reality? He worked sporadically, mostly loafed about dreaming of the empire he’d “any day now” build. Years passed. The money never came. The problems piled up.
To keep us afloat, I took extra shifts, borrowed, begged my parents for help. We rented a tiny flat, and every month I clenched my fists to scrape together the rent. He refused a mortgage—”Why chain ourselves? Everything will come together when the business takes off.” Except the business never left his head.
His mother cooed over him, calling him a “visionary.” Told me I was lucky—”A man with ideas is rare, and you’re stifling him with your practicality.” When I begged him to at least get a steady job, he’d snap, “You’re holding me back. You don’t believe in me.”
Then one day, he packed his things and left. Left me with our son, the debts, and an empty bank account. I didn’t chase him. I just needed to survive. Moved back in with my parents, tightened my belt, and started over.
The first six months, I could barely face the world. I hated the pity in people’s eyes. But Mum and Dad stood by me. We paid off bills, I took on freelance work, cut every corner. Slowly, steadily, I cleared the debts. Then got a mortgage on a small but cosy flat.
Now my boy’s six. He’s in school, has friends, a warm bed, and a grandmother who’s always there. I work, pay the mortgage, and we live simply—but we’re safe. We’re a family. We made it.
Then, out of the blue—a call. Unknown number, familiar voice. The ex-mother-in-law.
*”I’ve missed you both. Can I visit? I’ll bring Henry a cake. He’s my grandson, after all…”* Sweet as syrup, like those three silent years never happened.
I said yes. Out of politeness. She arrived with a bag of apples and that promised cake. Sat with Henry for ten minutes before starting. *”A boy needs his father. Oliver’s suffering—too proud to come back himself. You must reach out, for Henry’s sake. He misses him, even if he doesn’t realise it yet.”*
I stared, dumbstruck. I remember the day Oliver walked out. The messages I sent—met with silence. The unpaid child support. The fact he’s never once asked about his own son. And now I’m supposed to “forgive”?
I dug deeper. Found out through friends that Oliver’s back living with Mum. His latest girlfriend dumped him. No job, no plans—just pints at the pub and self-pity. That’s his “suffering.” And now his mother wants to dump him back on me. A dead weight, repackaged as “father of the year.”
I looked her in the eye. *”Henry’s loved. He has a home, stability, and peace. And I’m not some naïve girl you can manipulate. I won’t let you wreck our lives again. Want to see your grandson? Fine. But Oliver’s chapter is closed.”*
She left in a huff. Still texts, though. Pressures. Pleads. *”You must learn to forgive.”* Oh, I forgive. But I don’t forget. And I don’t reopen doors for people who’ve already walked out.