My Small Flat and My Husband’s Complaints
I have my own cosy little flat—bright, with flowers on the windowsill and an old armchair I adore. After our wedding, Daniel and I decided to live here, and I thought it would be our little haven. But within a couple of months, my husband started moaning about the long commute to work. At first, I thought he was just tired, but now the complaints come daily, and I don’t know how to respond. Should I give in and move? Or stand my ground, because this is my home, my castle? One thing’s certain: his grumbling is wearing me down, and I worry it’s just the start of our troubles.
Daniel and I married six months ago. Before the wedding, he lived with his parents on the other side of London, while I stayed in my flat—bought with my parents’ help and a mortgage. It’s a small one-bedroom, but cosy enough for two. I poured my heart into it: painted the walls warm cream, hung curtains I’d picked myself, put up shelves for my books. When we discussed where to live, I suggested my place. Daniel agreed: “Emily, your flat’s closer to the city centre, and having our own space is brilliant.” I was over the moon, imagining us cooking dinner together, watching films, making plans. But my dreams might have been too rosy.
The first few weeks were fine. Daniel helped with little fixes, we bought a new sofa together, even joked that our flat was like a love nest. Then he started coming home from work in a foul mood. “Emily,” he’d say, “it took me an hour and a half to get back—the traffic’s a nightmare.” His office is in the outskirts, and from our flat, it’s easily an hour’s drive, sometimes more if traffic’s bad. I sympathised, suggesting he leave earlier or try alternate routes. But it wasn’t enough. “You don’t get it,” he’d grumble. “I waste three hours a day commuting. This isn’t living.”
I tried to be patient. “Dan, let’s figure out how to make it easier. Maybe upgrade the car or try car-sharing?” He’d just wave me off. “A car won’t fix this, Em. We should live closer to my office.” Closer? Was he suggesting we move? I asked outright, and he nodded. “Yeah, it’d be simpler if we rented near my work.” I nearly choked on my tea. Rent? What about my flat? My home, for which I’d paid a mortgage for five years, which I’d decorated with such care? Just abandon it for the other side of the city because he’s inconvenienced?
I tried explaining that this flat isn’t just walls to me. It’s my first big step, my independence. I’m proud of it, even if it’s small and not in the poshest area. But Daniel looked at me like I was being childish. “Em, it’s just a flat. We could let it out and live somewhere that works better for me.” Better for him! What about me? My workplace is a twenty-minute walk from here. I love this neighbourhood—the park where I stroll, the café where I meet friends for coffee, the neighbour who brings me homemade scones. Why should I give all that up?
Things are getting worse by the day. Now Daniel complains about everything—the flat’s too small, the upstairs neighbours are noisy, it “smells like an old building.” Old? It’s a thirty-year-old council flat, and I’ve just redone it! I’m starting to think it’s not just the commute. Maybe he resents living in my space because it’s mine? I asked him once, “Dan, if we lived with your parents, would you moan this much?” He hesitated, then muttered, “It’s farther, but at least it’s more space.” More space? So my flat isn’t good enough?
I talked to Mum, hoping for advice. She listened and said, “Emily, marriage is about compromise. If he’s struggling, find middle ground.” But what’s the middle? Letting out my flat and moving for his convenience? Or staying here, enduring his complaints? I suggested an alternative—maybe Daniel could find work closer to us. He’s an engineer; there are plenty of jobs. But he just scoffed. “Are you serious? I’ve been at this company ten years—I’m not throwing that away.” So I should give up my home instead?
Now I’m stuck. Part of me wants to stand firm—this is my home, I deserve to live where I’m comfortable. But another part fears it’ll ruin our marriage. I love Daniel, I don’t want to fight, but his constant grumbling drives me mad. I feel guilty, as if I’m torturing him, then I think—why should I be the one sacrificing? He knew where we’d live when he agreed. Why should I change everything now?
I’ve given myself till the end of the month to decide. Maybe we could rent somewhere halfway between his work and mine? But the thought of my flat sitting empty, or worse, with strangers, breaks my heart. Or maybe Daniel will come around and stop complaining? I don’t know. For now, I bite my tongue when he starts on about traffic. But one thing’s certain—this is my home, and I don’t want to lose it. Not even for love. Or maybe love shouldn’t force you to choose?
