I can no longer bear living with my husband’s grandmother. It’s absolute torture!
At times, it feels as though I reside not in a home but in a museum where nothing may be touched. For months, I’ve pleaded with my husband to move, even if just to rented accommodation, because sharing a roof with his grandmother is sheer misery. She forbids touching anything—every object, even dust cannot be wiped away without an uproar. Everything is “an heirloom,” everything “holds sentimental value,” and if I dare do something my own way, she clutches her chest, claims her blood pressure has soared, and within half an hour, every relative knows of it. She rings them all, lamenting how ungrateful we are.
Before marriage, my husband and I took out a mortgage on a flat. Our parents gifted us a generous sum for the wedding, and I was overjoyed—we’d finally have our own home where I could be mistress of the house. We both worked, kept up with payments, and all was well… until I discovered I was expecting. It came as a complete shock—I’d been on birth control. At first, I was stunned, even considering ending the pregnancy, but my husband and parents were adamant: “Absolutely not!”
I continued working until the birth, and we managed just fine. But after our daughter was born, everything crumbled—we were left with only one income. My husband took on any odd job to keep us afloat, grasping at every opportunity. I couldn’t return to my parents—their place was cramped—and his parents already housed his younger brother and wife.
That’s when his grandmother stepped in. She offered for us to move in with her—her three-bedroom house had ample space. I barely knew her, but she seemed pleasant enough. We agreed, let out our own flat, and the extra money eased our burdens… but not the torment.
At first, it was tolerable, but soon it became a nightmare. In her house, nothing may be touched. At all. Not even the child! If our daughter reaches for something or crawls where she shouldn’t, Grandmother has “a heart attack.” She accuses me of deliberately letting the child grab things to drive her to an early grave! When my husband returns from work, she stages an elaborate performance: I’m a dreadful mother, neglectful, disrespectful. And him? He shrugs and acts as though it’s nothing. To him, this must be normal. But I’m at my breaking point.
I beg him—let’s return to our flat. Even if we scrimp and save, at least we’ll be free of this madness. He asks me to endure a little longer. Claims once my maternity leave ends, we’ll move back. But I don’t know how to survive till then.
I suggested we swap roles—let him stay home while I work. Let him endure a single day with this “gentle old lady.” He refused. So I delivered an ultimatum: if we don’t move next month, I’ll take our child and go to my parents in another town. He fell quiet. Now I wait—not for words, but action. Because I cannot endure this any longer.
