*”Well, we’ve got a baby now—how about swapping rooms…”* — How my brother’s wife tried to push Alexander out of his own space
This tale involves a good mate of mine, Alex, who I studied with at uni. He’s only twenty-two and still lives in his parents’ three-bedroom flat in one of those quiet suburban corners of Manchester. Fairly standard setup, really: three generations under one roof—his parents, him, and his older brother’s family, who’ve just welcomed a little one.
My mate’s brother, James, isn’t exactly raking it in, so renting their own place is off the cards for now. That means he, his wife Lily, and their newborn are stuck sharing the flat with the parents and younger brother. Everyone’s got their own room, of course, but the kitchen and bathroom are communal. Yeah, it’s a tight squeeze, but up until recently, they all muddled along just fine. Alex never complained—kept to himself, focused on his studies, picked up odd jobs here and there. No trouble, no fuss.
Then, one decidedly *not* brilliant afternoon, Lily cornered Alex with a *very* important proposal:
*”Alex, love, we’ve got a baby now… d’you think we could swap rooms? Yours gets all the sunlight, and ours is practically a dungeon—damp, too, I reckon. Not exactly ideal for a little one, is it?”*
Alex blinked. Damp? That was nonsense—no one had ever mentioned it before. Besides, his room might be a smidge smaller—two square metres, tops—but it was cosy, warm, and actually livable. Theirs had a balcony, sure, but it was drafty as anything, with awkwardly long walls. Oh, and let’s not forget: that balcony doubled as Mum’s laundry rack, Dad’s tool storage, and James’ teenage-smoking hideout.
Lily wasn’t letting up, though.
*”Ours is bigger, isn’t it? And if you’re bothered by the chill, you’re a bloke—just seal the windows. Not rocket science, is it?”*
Alex was quietly fuming. They were trying to guilt him out of his own space under the guise of Baby’s Needs. And James? Silent as a fish. Never once hinted he wanted to move. It was all Lily, circling like a seagull after chips, insisting it was *only fair*, that he *owed them* this.
Alex said no. Politely, but firmly. He wasn’t about to surrender his room—small as it was—for a draughty balcony thoroughfare where someone would barge in every hour for nappies, socks, or a sneaky fag. He liked being able to bring a girl home without worrying someone would start rummaging for washing powder at an *inopportune* moment.
*”Mum and Dad’s room is theirs. James and Lily’s is theirs. This one’s the only thing that’s mine,”* he told her. *”Sorry, but I’m not budging.”*
After that, the atmosphere at home turned arctic. Lily stopped speaking to him altogether, shooting daggers every time she passed by, as if he’d committed some unforgivable crime. James acted like the whole thing wasn’t happening. The parents stayed neutral, wisely avoiding the drama.
Alex noticed, but he didn’t care. He knew Lily’s game: weaponising *kindness*, *concern*, and *the baby’s needs*. Convenient how none of that included *his* needs.
*”I’m happy to help,”* he told me later. *”But why does it always have to come at my expense? Why am *I* the one expected to cave instead of them sorting their own lives out?”*
He’s got a point. Everyone’s entitled to their own boundaries—even at twenty-two, even in your parents’ house. Even when there’s a baby involved.
Lily sulked, naturally. She didn’t get her way. But Alex doesn’t feel guilty. And he shouldn’t. Sometimes, the only way to keep hold of yourself is to dig your heels in and say *no*.
