**Diary Entry – 12th March**
I can’t bear living with my husband’s grandmother any longer. It’s absolute torture.
Sometimes it feels like I’m not in a flat at all, but in a museum where nothing can be touched. For months, I’ve begged my husband to move out—even if it’s just renting somewhere—because sharing a roof with his nan is pure hell. She forbids touching *anything*, down to the last ornament. Even wiping dust off a shelf sparks a row. Everything’s “antique,” everything’s “sentimental,” and if I dare do something my way, she clutches her chest—”My heart!”—her “blood pressure spikes,” and within half an hour, *all* the relatives know because she’s rung them to wail about how ungrateful we are.
Before we married, we took out a mortgage on a flat. For the wedding, our parents gifted us a generous sum, and I was over the moon—finally, our own place where I’d be mistress of the house. We both worked, kept up with payments, all was well… until I found out I was pregnant. A total shock—I’d been on birth control. At first, I was horrified, even thought of ending it, but my husband and parents *all* said, “Absolutely not!”
I kept working until the birth, and we managed fine. But after our daughter, Lily, arrived, everything fell apart—we were down to one income. My husband scrambled for extra work, took anything going. I couldn’t move back home; my parents’ place was cramped, and his parents already had his younger brother and wife living there.
That’s when his nan stepped in. *She* suggested we move in—her three-bedroom house had room to spare. I barely knew her then, but she seemed decent enough. We agreed, let out our flat, and the extra money helped… but mentally? It’s been unbearable.
At first, it was tolerable. Then came the nightmare. In her house, you don’t touch a *thing*. Not even the child! If Lily grabs something or crawls where she shouldn’t, Nan gasps like it’s a heart attack. And she accuses *me* of letting Lily misbehave *on purpose*—to “finish her off!” When my husband gets home from work, Nan stages this dramatic performance: I’m a neglectful mother, disrespectful, *villainous*. And him? He shrugs. Acts like it’s nothing. To him, this must be normal. To me? I’m at breaking point.
I’ve begged him: *Let’s go back to our flat*. Tight budget or not, at least we’d be free of this madness. He tells me to hold on—”Once your maternity leave ends, we’ll move.” But how do I survive till then?
I’ve offered to swap—*he* can stay home, I’ll work. Let him endure a single day with “sweet old Granny.” He refused. So I’ve given him an ultimatum: If we’re not out by next month, I’m taking Lily and moving to my parents’ in Manchester. He went quiet. Now I’m waiting. Not for words—for *action*. Because I can’t take another day of this.
**Lesson learned:** There’s kindness, and then there’s strings attached—some so tight they strangle you. Never trade your peace for a roof.
