**Diary Entry – A Mother’s Burden**
My daughter posted online: *“Life is hard without a mother, but it’s even harder when you have one who’s a monster.”* Her words cut deep, and I can’t help but wince at the bitterness in them. At 56, I never thought I’d be called such a thing—especially by my own flesh and blood.
Monster. That’s me. I refused to let my daughter and grandchildren into my home. But then again, I’ve grown used to being cast as the villain. No matter how much I do, it’s never enough.
A year ago, my daughter—Katherine—slammed the door on me, cutting all ties. I had to check her social media just to know she was alive. Then, last September, she appeared on my doorstep with those same hollow eyes: *“Mum, please… help me.”*
She wasn’t alone. With her were two boys—four years and seven months old—each from a different father. Déjà vu. Three and a half years ago, she’d shown up with just the eldest, begging for a place to stay after her divorce. Back then, I let her in. My house in Manchester became hers.
Her first husband, James, was a lout from the start—coarse, uneducated, scraping by with odd jobs at a mate’s garage. I warned her: *“He’s not the one. Don’t rush into marriage.”* But she did—just to spite me, I think. Then came the baby, and with it, the chaos.
James drank, cheated, shouted. At first, Katherine pretended all was fine, but I saw how it wore her down. Money vanished faster than petrol from a leaky tank. I bought clothes for my grandson, but did she thank me? No. Instead, they hissed that I was “judging” them.
When the marriage crumbled, she landed on my doorstep, child in tow. What followed was worse. She expected me to cook, clean, and raise her son so she could *“live her life”*—meeting friends, working, or lounging in the bath. She even suggested that *I* should be *grateful* to babysit while she scrolled through Instagram. Not a chance.
*“No rest while I’m raising your child,”* I told her. *“You want freedom? You should’ve thought of that first.”* She spat back that her friends’ mums—Sophie’s and Emily’s—watched their grandkids while they went on dates. Well, *I* wasn’t running a crèche.
I laid down rules: She’d do the chores (*“Did she think I’d scrub her mess?”*), pay her share (*“Welcome to adulthood”*), and learn the hard way (*“I told you so”*).
But it was futile. Katherine sneaked off to meet some bloke she’d met online, then stormed out, taking the boy. For a year and a half, I heard nothing—until she returned, this time with *two* children.
This time, I shut the door.
*“No, love,”* I said. *“You humiliated me, painted me as a monster. If you’ve nowhere else, take the keys to the cottage.”*
That cottage—a bleak, distant thing, miles from Derby, a four-kilometre trudge from the bus stop. No shops nearby, just a pricey corner store. The nearest proper supermarket’s a trek, and good luck getting an ambulance in winter. No plumbing, just a well and an outhouse.
Yet Katherine took the keys and thanked me. Now she’s out there, posting about her *“cruel mother”* while I wonder: Am I really the monster? Or is this just her way of blaming everyone but herself?
**Lesson:** Some wounds never heal—especially those inflicted by the people we love most.