**Diary Entry – 18th March**
This happened to an old mate of mine from university—let’s call him Oliver. He’s only twenty-two and still lives in his parents’ three-bed house in a quiet neighbourhood in Manchester. Fairly standard setup: three generations under one roof—his parents, him, and his older brother’s family, who’ve just had a baby.
Oliver’s brother, James, doesn’t earn enough to rent his own place, so he, his wife Emily, and the little one have to share the house with the parents and their younger brother. Everyone’s got their own room; kitchen and bathroom are shared. Granted, it’s a bit tight, but up till now, they’d all managed just fine. Oliver never complained—kept to himself, studied, picked up odd jobs, stayed out of everyone’s way.
Then one day, Emily corners him with a *brilliant* idea:
*”Ollie, love… we’ve got the baby now. How about swapping rooms? Yours gets all the sunshine, and ours is always so dark. Feels a bit damp, too—not good for the little one, is it?”*
Oliver was taken aback. Damp? Absolute nonsense—no one had ever mentioned it before. His room *was* smaller by a few feet, but it was cosy, warm, properly squared off. Theirs had a balcony, long awkward walls, and a nasty draft. Not to mention, that balcony was where Mum hung the washing, Dad stored his tools, and James snuck out for a smoke.
Emily pressed on: *”It’s only fair, Ollie—ours is bigger! And if it’s too chilly for you, just seal the windows. Easy fix, yeah?”*
Oliver bit his tongue. His space—his *one* bit of peace—was being hijacked under the guise of *”think of the baby!”* James? Silent as a shadow. Never once hinted he wanted to move. Just Emily, circling, wheedling, insisting it was *only right* he hand it over.
Oliver refused. Polite but firm. He wasn’t about to trade his quiet retreat for a drafty corridor where people would barge in every hour for nappies or fags. He wasn’t giving up the right to bring a girl round without someone rooting through the laundry cupboard next door.
*”Mum and Dad’s room is theirs. Yours is for your family. Mine’s the only thing that’s just mine,”* he told her. *”Sorry, but I’m not budging.”*
After that, the atmosphere turned icy. Emily stopped speaking to him, shooting him looks like *he* was the villain. James pretended nothing had happened. The parents stayed neutral, avoiding the whole mess.
Oliver didn’t let it rattle him. He saw right through it—Emily’s tactics, all *”for the baby’s sake,”* with no regard for him.
*”I’d help if I could,”* he told me later. *”But why’s it always got to cost *me* my comfort? Why should I be the one to cave instead of them sorting their own problems?”*
He’s right. Everyone’s entitled to their own boundaries—even at twenty-two, even in your parents’ house, even when there’s a baby involved.
Emily’s miffed, of course. She didn’t get her way. But Oliver doesn’t feel guilty. And he shouldn’t.
Sometimes, keeping hold of yourself starts with one solid *”no.”*
