“I can’t stand living with my husband’s grandmother anymore. It’s absolute torture!”
There are days when I feel less like I’m in a home and more like I’m trapped in a museum where everything is off-limits. For months, I’ve begged my husband to move out—even if it’s just renting somewhere—because sharing a roof with his grandmother is pure misery. She forbids touching *anything*, down to the smallest trinket. Even wiping away dust sparks a row. Every object is “an antique” or “sentimental,” and if I dare do something my way, she clutches her chest, claims her blood pressure’s spiking, and within half an hour, the entire family knows what an ungrateful wretch I am.
Before we married, my husband and I bought a flat with a mortgage. Our parents gifted us a hefty sum for the wedding, and I was over the moon—finally, our own place where I could be the mistress of the house. We both worked, kept up with payments, and everything was fine… until I found out I was pregnant. It was a complete shock—I was on birth control. At first, I reeled, even considered not keeping it, but my husband and parents all insisted, “Absolutely not!”
I kept working until the baby came, and we managed fine. But after our daughter was born, everything fell apart. We were down to one income. My husband took on extra jobs wherever he could, scraping by to support us. Moving back with my parents wasn’t an option—their place was too small—and his parents already had his younger brother and wife living with them.
That’s when his grandmother stepped in. She offered her three-bedroom house—plenty of space, she said. I barely knew her, but she seemed kind enough. We agreed, let out our flat, and the extra money helped… but emotionally, it’s been a nightmare.
At first, it was bearable. Then the real horror began. In her house, *nothing* can be touched. *Nothing.* Not even by the baby! If our daughter reaches for something or crawls where she shouldn’t, Gran acts like it’s a heart attack in the making—and accuses me of letting the child destroy her precious things on purpose! When my husband gets home, she stages a full performance: I’m a terrible mother, disrespectful, rebellious. And him? He just shrugs and acts like it’s normal. For him, maybe it is. But I’m at my breaking point.
I’ve begged him—let’s go back to our flat. Tight budget or not, at least we’d have peace. He tells me to hang on. “When your maternity leave ends, we’ll move,” he says. But how am I supposed to last that long?
I offered to swap roles—he could stay home while I worked. Let *him* endure a day with “sweet old Gran.” He refused. So I gave him an ultimatum: if we’re not out by next month, I’m taking our daughter and moving to my parents’ in another town. He went quiet. Now I’m waiting—not for promises, but action. Because I can’t take another day of this.
**Sometimes, peace is worth more than comfort—and silence is no substitute for a solution.**
