I suggested to my mother-in-law that we divide the fridge shelves—and all hell broke loose. “What rubbish is this? Not even in student digs would you see such nonsense!”
Four years. That’s how long my husband and I, along with our two-year-old daughter, have lived under the same roof as his mother, Margaret Spencer. 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 school. Our wages barely cover nappies, bread, and the utilities. Even if I took on a second job, 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. Yes, she’s difficult, but she’s our daughter’s grandmother. And she helps—she’ll mind the baby while I dash to the chemist or the GP. But with each passing month, it gets harder. We’re walking on eggshells. One wrong move, and the explosion comes. First, it was small things: leaving a plate unwashed after dinner, not wiping the hob. Then the accusations started. “Your pasta’s gone off again,” “Why did you eat my yoghurt?”—even though I never touched it.
I bit my tongue. I truly did. But one day, when she accused me of making her chicken soup disappear, I snapped. I suggested dividing the fridge. A fair, sensible solution: the top shelf for her, the middle for us. She cooks for herself; we cook for ourselves. No more blame. Each to their own.
Margaret froze. Then she erupted.
“What on earth are you on about? Even when I was young, sharing a dorm with six other girls—no one split the fridge! Everything was shared. Are you family or strangers? What, I make a stew, and you say, ‘No thanks, we’ve got our own’? How do you explain to a two-year-old that the banana on the bottom shelf is Granny’s and she can’t touch it? Absolute nonsense! Not in my house!”
And it is—her house. She never lets us forget it, not for a single day. If we dare change anything—hang a new towel, move a mug—she reminds us: “This is my flat. What I say goes.” No hints. Straight to the point.
On the other hand, she knows where to find the cheapest cuts of meat, which corner shop has cheese on offer, where to get discount veg. She races between markets with military precision, hauling home bags of groceries for pennies. Sometimes I envy her—I don’t have the time or energy for those runs. I buy what’s closest. Yes, it costs more. But for her, it’s ammunition. “I’m the one putting in the effort, and all you do is complain!”
I’ve tried talking to my husband. “Let’s rent a one-bed flat, even on the edge of town—just to be on our own.” But he won’t. “We can’t afford it. Mum needs us. She’ll be hurt.” Every time. He’s afraid of upsetting her, while I’m the one crushed daily. No one spares a thought for me.
Margaret insists shared meals “bring the family together.” Ours end in shouting, slammed doors, and a week of silence. All I want is to sit at the table and eat in peace. Without someone snapping, “What’s this? I was saving it for tomorrow!” Or, “You’ve left crumbs everywhere—again!”
I’m exhausted. But there’s no way out. Trapped between generations, between poverty and survival. I want to leave. I want to live, not just scrape by. But for now, all I can do is wait. Wait for our daughter to grow up, for my husband to grow a spine, for us to save enough for rent…
And every time I open the fridge, it’s not the hinge that creaks. It’s her voice, ringing loud and clear: “In this house, things are done my way!”
