**Diary Entry**
When I married a divorced man just over two years ago, I had no doubts or reservations. I wasn’t afraid of his past—if anything, I thought it meant he valued commitment and understood the meaning of family. Our union felt solid, until one announcement turned everything upside down.
“Emily’s coming to stay with us soon,” my husband said as soon as he walked in, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “She’s starting uni and will live here for a bit—could be a few months, could be years. We’ll see.”
I froze. The world tilted beneath me. A one-bed flat. Just the two of us. And now—a grown girl, even if she *is* his daughter. How did he think this was normal? Anger rose like a tide inside me.
“Why does she have to live with us?” I asked bluntly. “Why not halls? Students everywhere manage just fine. I shared a room with two other girls when I was at uni—I survived, even graduated with first-class honours. Why does she get special treatment?”
But my words seemed to wound him. His face flushed, his voice sharpened.
“Are you seriously saying that about *my* daughter? My *only* child? I’ve missed her all these years. How can she stay in student digs knowing I’m right here but the door’s shut in her face?”
And then it spiralled. He said his decision was final, my opinion irrelevant. In that moment, I felt my entire life, every effort I’d put into our marriage, wiped away like dirt under a shoe. I’m nothing to him. No voice. In my own home, I’m just a flatmate, not a wife.
Now, Emily’s a sweet girl—polite, quiet, bright. I’ve never had a bad word to say about her. But how are we supposed to fit three adults into a place that barely holds two? Where will she sleep? Study? How do we keep any semblance of privacy? What about evenings alone, where I’m more than just someone who shares a postcode with him?
I snapped. “*She’s not staying here*,” I told him, then walked out, slamming the door. I wandered the streets for hours, crying until my throat hurt. It’s not even about Emily. It’s about *me*. About him making life-altering choices without consulting me. About realising I’m just an accessory to his flat.
Now, I don’t know what to do. The same thought loops in my head: *Why stay with someone who doesn’t hear you? Why sacrifice your peace for someone who’ll always say, ‘I don’t care what you think’?*
I know this is only the start. It’ll get worse. He’ll always choose between me and his daughter—and we both know who’ll win. If I already feel like an outsider in my own home, what’s next?
Sometimes the hardest choice is leaving someone you love. But it’s even harder to stay where you’re not wanted.
