**Diary Entry**
Four years. That’s how long my husband, our two-year-old daughter, and I have lived under the same roof as his mother—Margaret Whitmore. In an old three-bedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. We stay because we can’t afford anything else. My husband works as a mechanic, and I’m a librarian at the local primary school. Our wages barely cover nappies, bread, and utilities. Even if I took on extra shifts, it wouldn’t be enough to rent our own place. So we endure. Every single day.
I tried to be grateful. After all, Margaret isn’t a stranger. She may be difficult, but she’s our daughter’s grandmother. She helps, too—she’ll mind the baby while I run errands or to the GP. But as time passes, it gets harder. It’s like walking through a minefield. One wrong step, and everything explodes. It started with small things: not washing a plate straight after dinner, forgetting to wipe the hob. Then came the jabs—“Your pasta’s gone off again,” “Why did you eat my yoghurt?”—even when I hadn’t touched it.
I bit my tongue. Truly. But one day, when she accused me of stealing her chicken soup—again—I snapped. I suggested dividing the fridge. Honestly, kindly—top shelf hers, middle shelf ours. She cooks for herself, we cook for ourselves. No more arguments. Everyone keeps to their own.
Margaret froze—then erupted.
“What nonsense is this? Even when I was in uni, sharing a dorm with six girls, no one divided the fridge! Everything was shared. Are we family or strangers? So I make stew, and you say, ‘No thanks, we’ve got our own’? How do you explain to a toddler that the bananas on the bottom shelf are Nana’s and she can’t touch them? Absolute rubbish! Not under my roof!”
And that’s the heart of it—her roof. She never lets us forget it. If we dare change anything—hang a new towel, move a mug—she snaps, “This is my flat. My rules.” No hints—straight to the point.
On the other hand, she knows where to find the cheapest meat, which corner shop has yoghurt on sale, which market does discount veg. She dashes about with a mental timetable, hauling home bags of groceries for pennies. Sometimes I envy her—I don’t have the time or energy for that. I buy what’s closest. And yes, it costs more. But then come the lectures—“I put in all this effort, and you just complain!”
I’ve talked to my husband. Begged him—let’s rent even a tiny flat, anywhere—just to live alone. But he won’t. “We can’t afford it. Mum needs us. She’ll be hurt…” Same words every time. He’s afraid of upsetting her. Meanwhile, I’m upset every day. And no one cares.
Margaret says family dinners bring us together. Ours end with shouting, slammed doors, and days of silence. Some nights, I just want to sit down and eat—without dread. Without hearing, “Why did you eat that? I was saving it!” or “You’ve left crumbs everywhere!”
I’m tired. But there’s no way out. We’re stuck between generations, between poverty and this endless tolerance. I want to leave. To live, not just survive. But for now, all I can do is wait—until our daughter’s older, until my husband finds his backbone, until we’ve saved enough for rent…
And every time I open the fridge, it’s not the hinge that creaks. It’s her voice, sharp as ever—“This is *my* house. And we do things *my* way.”
