**Diary Entry – 12th June**
I overheard my colleague, Margaret Whitmore, on the phone today—her voice sharp as ever. She’s known for her fiery temper and blind devotion to her grown son, Thomas.
“Hello, darling. How are you?” she chirped, though there was an edge to it.
“Quite well,” I replied. “The kids visited over the weekend with the grandchildren. Brought groceries, cooked a proper Sunday roast. My daughter-in-law, Emily, she’s an absolute gem—did the laundry, cleaned the house. With my blood pressure acting up, I’d have been lost without her.”
“You’re lucky!” Margaret snapped, her tone sour. “Mine’s a nightmare. That woman Thomas married—she’s no wife, she’s a viper! Played the sweetheart at first, but now? Absolute terror!”
“I thought she was lovely before. What changed?”
“It was fine until Thomas lost his job. Now she berates him constantly! The things she says—’Go work as anything, even a delivery driver!’ Can you imagine? A man with two degrees, and she tells him to ‘try security work’!”
“And Thomas…?”
“Oh, he’s trying! Proper jobs just aren’t there. He won’t slave away for pennies. Was that why I scraped to put him through university? Gave my all so he could haul boxes for a living?”
I held my tongue. The truth? Thomas hasn’t worked in two years. He “looks,” but only for roles he deems “worthy.” Meanwhile, he lounges at home in his slippers, with a mother convinced the world owes him better.
“Honestly,” Margaret ranted, “she makes him clean! Wash dishes! A man in an apron—it’s absurd! And the meals she cooks—porridge, plain soups. My Thomas loves roast dinners, shepherd’s pie, apple crumble. She feeds him pasta and lentils. A man needs proper food!”
“But… where’s the money coming from?” I murmured.
“Exactly! That’s why I cook for him! Made a beef stew today, baked scones. He’s lost nearly a stone living with her—skin and bones! She’s heartless.”
I bit back my anger. A healthy man, leeching off his wife and mother for years, still coddled—does no one see how exhausted that poor woman must be? A child at home, empty fridge, unemployed husband… and she’s the villain for not plating up gourmet meals or letting him skip chores?
I couldn’t stay silent.
“Margaret… isn’t it shameful? A man jobless for years, sulking over soup? Shouldn’t he pitch in?”
“But he’s searching—” she mumbled weakly.
“Searching’s one thing. Exploiting his wife’s patience is another. He’s not ill. He can scrub a pan or sweep a floor. Or do you think she should work, tend the baby, and shoulder the house alone?”
“Well…” She faltered.
“I’d have snapped. Honestly, I admire Emily. That she hasn’t kicked him out yet is a miracle. Others would’ve changed the locks.”
Margaret went quiet. But my blood boiled. Too many like Thomas—and worse, mothers like Margaret, excusing them. Then they blame the exhausted wives for not serving steak or daring to ask for help.
In this story, only one person’s trying: Emily. She endures. Carries the weight. No complaints. And for that, she’s the villain.
So tell me—is a jobless man who won’t lift a finger at home just “going through a rough patch”? Or is it sheer laziness disguised as struggle? Where’s the line between hardship and habit? And who’s really at fault—the wife at her breaking point, or the mother who never let her son grow up?