**Diary Entry – 15th March**
What do you do when you can’t see eye to eye with your mother, and every conversation ends in arguments and frustration?
It’s time I put my thoughts down on paper—perhaps that will bring me a shred of peace. I’m just an ordinary woman in my early thirties, married for a few years now. My husband, James, and I rent a flat in bustling London, both working hard to build our lives. We’re happy, truth be told, though we’ve decided to wait before having children—enjoying our time together first. My mum, Margaret Williams, turned 65 last year and has been widowed for nearly three years since Dad passed.
Dad was my rock—someone I trusted completely, who I could talk to about anything. Losing him left a hole in my heart that nothing can fill. Mum and I always had a warm but turbulent relationship—rows flared up like struck matches, leaving bitterness in their wake. My older sister, Charlotte, lives with Mum in our childhood home just outside London, but she’s been away on business these past three months, leaving Mum alone.
My job is nothing but stress, my nerves frayed thin. I hate long phone calls, preferring quick texts—easier, quicker, calmer. But Mum rings me several times a day, each call a trial. Weeks ago, I finally told her straight: “Mum, I’m exhausted hearing only the bad. Let’s talk about something good.” I *do* understand—she’s lonely, especially with money tight, and my heart aches for her. To help, I found her part-time work—babysitting for her sister and a few hours at an office. Yet our talks still boil down to two things: her job or endless complaints about life. It wears me down, so I asked her to call less, to message instead. She listened—for two days. Then it was back to normal, as if I’d never spoken.
I tried explaining: “Mum, I’ve got my own family, my own life now. I’m married.” Her reply? A gut punch: “I should *always* come first for you.” I was stunned. Those words rang in my head as resentment bubbled inside. I told her James deserved my time too, that I couldn’t split myself in two, but she brushed it off. Conversations slid back into whingeing, so I reminded her: “I’ve done everything I can to help.” Then she snapped: “You’re not the only one who looks after their parents! My friends’ kids buy them cars, send them money!” That cut deep. Two years ago, I scrimped every penny—skipping meals, forgoing holidays—to save for her hearing aids. We couldn’t even afford a car then, yet I sacrificed to make sure she felt cared for after Dad died. And *this* was her gratitude.
All I want is a little quiet, a breath of freedom. James is wonderful—steady, kind, patient. But even *he* grits his teeth when her calls shatter our evenings. And Mum? She took offence, claiming *he’s* turning me against her. That was the final straw.
It’s all more tangled than it seems. Before I turned eighteen, Mum and I fought like cats and dogs—her shouting, me weeping, my childhood steeped in hurt. Now I try to mend things, to reach out, but I’m met with a wall. She won’t listen. *Refuses* to. And I’m drowning in the helplessness of it.
I’m tired of the rows, the whirlpool of misunderstanding. My heart aches, but I don’t know the way out. How do you bridge a gap when only one person is willing?
**Lesson learned today:** Some wounds don’t heal just because you want them to. Sometimes, distance is the only peace you’ll find.