I moved in with him, hoping we could have a fresh start together, and yet, in the end, I found myself sleeping on the sofa in what was meant to be my own home. When I agreed to live with him, I did so with the belief that we would build something together. I left behind my neighbourhood, my routine, my belongings. All I carried with me were some clothes, my hopes, and a dream that the two of us could make a home as a couple.
He lived in a small flat in Manchester, a cramped one-bedroom place, but he told me it would only be temporary. Soon, he promised, we would look for somewhere bigger together. I believed him.
The first few months were lovely. We shared a bed, cooked meals together, and would curl up to watch our favourite shows in the evenings. It was snugyes, perhaps a bit too snugbut it was ours. Then, one day, he came home with the news that his mother had got into a spot of bother with money, and his sister had lost her lodgings. He said it would only be for a few days and just until they get sorted. Wanting to be understanding and not selfish, I agreed.
But those few days stretched into weeks. Soon, the main bedroom belonged to his mother and sister, as Mums getting on and she needs a proper bed, he said. His sister claimed the wardrobe and the bathroom as if it had always been hers. That left me with the pull-out sofa in the lounge. At first, I told myself it was just for a short while and that a solution would come soon. Yet no one mentioned any plans to move. Night after night, Id lay out the blankets and make up the sofa, tidying it away each morning so the living room looked normal.
The inconveniences piled up quickly. There was no private corner for my things, no place to retreat and rest properly. After a long, wearying day at work, I had nowhere to lay my head in peace. His mother would pass remarks about everythingmy cooking, my clothes, even the hour I got home. His sister wouldnt lift a finger; shed sleep late and leave dirty dishes in the sink, yet I felt like I was intruding on their space.
What hurt the most was realising that he wouldnt do a thing about it. Not once did he say, My partner has a right to space, too. He never set any boundaries. Quite the contraryhe urged patience, told me to be more understanding, to stop making a fuss. One evening, exhausted after another bad night’s sleep, I told him things couldnt go on like this. I said we needed another arrangement; I couldnt keep living as a guest in my own home. He simply replied, Thats my mum, thats my family. At that moment, I understood that I didnt count as part of that family.
I spoke to my own mother, and I returned to the house where I grew up, back in Bristol. Every so often, he would reach out to me, saying that we could still be togetherjust not under the same roof. And, truth be told, I still dont know quite what to make of it all.
