My Flat and My Husband’s Complaints
I’ve got a cosy little flat of my own—flowers on the windowsill, a well-worn armchair I adore, the works. After the wedding, Ethan and I decided to make this our nest, and I thought it’d be our own slice of heaven. But within months, my husband started moaning about his dreadful commute. At first, I chalked it up to exhaustion, but now it’s a daily chorus, and I’m at a loss. Should I cave and move? Or hold my ground because, well, it’s my castle? One thing’s certain: his grumbling’s wearing me down, and I’ve a sneaking suspicion this is just the tip of the iceberg.
Ethan and I tied the knot six months ago. Before that, he lived with his parents across town, while I’d been in this flat—bought with a mix of parental help and a mortgage. It’s a modest one-bedder, but perfectly snug for two. I’d poured my soul into it: warm cream walls, curtains I’d picked myself, shelves crammed with books. When we discussed post-wedding plans, I suggested my place. “Emily, it’s closer to the city centre, and owning’s brilliant,” he’d agreed. I was over the moon, picturing cosy dinners, film nights, building a life together. Turns out, I’d been a touch too optimistic.
The first few weeks were grand. Ethan helped with odd jobs, we splurged on a new sofa, even joked our flat was a “love nest.” Then he started coming home darker than a storm cloud. “Emily,” he’d sigh, “took me an hour and a half today—traffic’s a nightmare.” His office is on the outskirts, and yes, it’s a solid hour’s drive, longer if the M25’s having one of its meltdowns. I sympathised, suggesting earlier starts or dodgy shortcuts. No dice. “You don’t get it,” he’d grumble. “Three hours a day on the road isn’t living.”
I tried being patient. “Ethan, let’s find ways to make it easier. New car? Carpool?” He’d wave me off. “Won’t fix it, Em. We should live closer to my office.” Closer? As in… move? I asked outright, and he nodded. “Yeah, renting near work would simplify things.” I nearly choked on my tea. Rent? What about my flat? My home, the one I’d spent five years mortgaging and decorating with my heart and soul? Just abandon it because the Tube’s a bother?
I explained this wasn’t just bricks and mortar to me—it was my first big grown-up move, my independence. I’m proud of it, even if it’s tiny and not exactly Kensington. But Ethan looked at me like I was being daft. “Emily, it’s just a flat. We could let it out and live somewhere that works for me.” Works for him? What about me? My office’s a twenty-minute stroll away. I love this area—the park where I jog, the café where I meet mates, the neighbour who brings over scones. Why should I give all that up?
Things have only gotten frostier. Now Ethan whinges about everything—the flat’s too cramped, the upstairs neighbours are noisy, it “smells like an old building.” Old? It’s a 90s build, and I just redid the kitchen! I’m starting to think the commute’s just an excuse. Does he resent living in my space? I tested the waters: “Ethan, if we lived with your parents, would you moan this much?” He hesitated, then muttered, “Still far, but at least it’s roomier.” Roomier? So my flat’s not good enough?
I rang my mum for advice. “Marriage is compromise, love,” she said. “If he’s struggling, meet halfway.” But where’s halfway? Ditch my flat for his convenience? Or stay put and endure the griping? I floated another idea: maybe Ethan could find a job closer. He’s an engineer—plenty of firms in town. He scoffed. “I’ve been at this company a decade. I’m not jumping ship.” So I’m the one who has to abandon everything?
Now I’m stuck. Part of me wants to dig in—it’s my home, I’ve every right to stay. But the other part worries this’ll wreck us. I love Ethan, and I loathe arguing, but his moaning’s driving me spare. I feel guilty, like I’m torturing him. Then I think: hang on, he knew where we’d live when he said yes. Why must I be the one to bend?
I’ve given myself till month’s end to decide. Maybe we could rent somewhere between his work and mine? But the thought of strangers in my flat—or it sitting empty—makes my chest ache. Or perhaps Ethan’ll snap out of it? Who knows. For now, I’m biting my tongue when he starts on about the Central line. But one thing’s clear: this is my home, and I won’t give it up lightly. Not even for love. Or maybe love shouldn’t mean having to choose?
