**Diary Entry**
Life’s become a daily grind, every call from Mum like a dagger twisting deeper. She sees my husband, James, as nothing but a failure—a man who can’t even keep his family afloat. Her voice drips with sarcasm when she asks, *”Managed to scrape by this month, or are you drowning yet?”*
Does she not see how hard we’re fighting just to give our little boy a chance?
We live in a quiet village outside Manchester, and I’m the only one not bringing in a wage. Our son, Alfie, is three, and he’s got Down’s syndrome. Every spare minute goes into helping him—making sure he’s loved, supported, and never held back by the world. But it costs a fortune: specialist classes, swimming lessons, speech therapy. The mortgage on our tiny flat eats most of James’ wages before we’ve even paid a bill. Some months, we’re counting pennies just to put food on the table.
James works himself to the bone—odd jobs, night shifts, anything that pays. He comes home exhausted, hollow-eyed, but never complains. Then Mum calls. Rosemary Wilkinson, with her perfect little flat in London and her holiday cottages in Cornwall. She’s got money to burn, while we’re rationing heating.
She’s never hidden her contempt for James. *”What kind of man can’t support his family?”* she’ll sneer, as if wages haven’t stalled and rents haven’t doubled. She doesn’t know the fight it took just to get Alfie’s care sorted—months of waiting lists, private fees we couldn’t afford. But Mum’s oblivious. To her, struggle’s just laziness in disguise.
When Alfie was diagnosed, her first words were, *”Well, what did you expect, marrying him?”* Like James caused it. Like any of this is his fault.
I swallow the hurt. Arguing’s pointless—she’s always right. Some days I think I should cut her off, shield my family from her poison. But guilt keeps me silent. She wasn’t always like this. When I was little, she was my whole world. Then I met James, and suddenly nothing I did was good enough.
We haven’t bought ourselves anything in years. Clothes come from charity shops, meals stretch for days. Every sacrifice is for Alfie—I’d starve before seeing him go without. But Mum? She calls to gloat, never to ask how he is.
My mate Sarah insists Mum’ll come around, that I should ask for help. But pride’s all I’ve got left. I’m tired of her jabs, her coldness. Maybe things’ll get easier for us. Maybe James’ luck will turn. But Mum? That bridge is burned.
Some nights, when James lifts Alfie onto his shoulders and our boy laughs like nothing’s wrong, I know we’ve already won.
Love doesn’t need her approval. And I’ll fight for mine until my last breath.
