Four years. That’s how long my husband and I have lived under the same roof as his mother—Margaret—with our two-year-old daughter, Lily. We’re crammed into her old three-bedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. 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 utility bills. Even if I picked up 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’s Lily’s grandmother, even if she’s got a sharp tongue. She helps sometimes—watches Lily while I dash to the chemist or the GP. But as time goes on, it gets harder. We’re walking on eggshells. One wrong move—an explosion. It started with small things: leaving a plate unwashed after dinner, not wiping the hob. Then came the jabs: *”Your pasta’s gone off again,” “Why did you eat my yogurt?”*—when I never even touched it.
I put up with it. Really, I did. But one day, when she accused me of finishing her chicken soup (again), I snapped. I suggested dividing the fridge—fairly, kindly. Top shelf: hers. Middle shelf: ours. She cooks for herself; we cook for ourselves. No more arguments. Keep things separate.
Margaret froze. Then she erupted.
*”What nonsense is this? Even back when I shared a dorm with six girls, we didn’t split the fridge! Everything was shared. Are we family or strangers? So I make a roast, 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 Granny’s and she can’t touch them? Ridiculous! Not in my house!”*
And that’s the problem—it *is* her house. She never lets us forget it. If we dare change anything—hang a new towel, move a mug—she’s quick to remind us: *”This is my flat. It’s my way or nothing.”* No subtlety. Just blunt.
On the other hand, she knows where to find the cheapest cuts of meat, which corner shop has yoghurt on sale, which market stall discounts veg last thing. She dashes around with military precision, 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, even if it costs more. She’s like a sniper: waits, aims, strikes. But then it’s ammunition: *”I put in all this effort, and you just moan!”*
I’ve begged my husband: *”Let’s rent a tiny flat, even on the outskirts. Just to be on our own.”* He refuses. *”We can’t afford it. Mum needs us. She’d be hurt…”* Every time, the same. He’s terrified of upsetting her. Meanwhile, no one cares if *I’m* upset.
Margaret insists family dinners bring us closer. Ours end in shouting, slammed doors, and silence for days. Sometimes I just want to sit down and eat—without someone hissing, *”That was for tomorrow!”* or *”You didn’t wipe the table!”*
I’m tired. But there’s no way out. Trapped between generations, between poverty and patience. I want to leave. I want to *live*, not just survive. But for now, all I can do is wait—for Lily to grow up, for my husband to find his spine, for enough savings to cover rent…
Every time I open the fridge, I don’t just hear the creak of the door. I hear Margaret’s voice: *”In this house, it’s my rules!”*
