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 Elizabeth. 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 gas bill. 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 Elizabeth *is* family. And yes, she’s got a sharp tongue, but she’s our daughter’s grandmother. She helps—watches the little one while I dash to the chemist or the GP. But as time passes, it gets harder. Like walking on eggshells. One wrong move, and the whole thing shatters.
It started small—a plate left unwashed after dinner, crumbs on the hob. Then came the jabs: *”Your pasta’s gone off again,”* or *”Why did you eat my yoghurt?”* when I hadn’t even touched it.
I bit my tongue. Truly. But one day, when she accused me—*again*—of finishing her chicken stew, I cracked. I suggested dividing the fridge. Simple and fair: top shelf—hers, middle—ours. She cooks for herself; we cook for ourselves. No more fights over who ate what.
Margaret Elizabeth went still—then exploded.
*”What utter nonsense! Even when I shared a dorm with six other girls at uni, no one split the fridge! Everything was shared. Are we family or bloody strangers? So I make a roast, and you say, ‘No thanks, we’ve got our own’? How d’you explain to a toddler that the orange on the bottom shelf is Granny’s and she can’t touch it? Rubbish! Not in *my* house!”*
And that’s the thing—it *is* her house. She never lets us forget it. If we so much as hang a new tea towel or move a mug, she snaps: *”This is *my* flat. And it’ll stay the way I want it.”* No hints, no pretending. Just the raw truth.
Still, she knows where to buy the cheapest mince, which corner shop has yoghurt on sale, which market stall slashes veg prices at closing. She dashes between shops, timing it just right, hauling home bags for pennies. Sometimes I envy that—I haven’t the time or energy. I grab what’s closest. Pay more. She’s a sniper—waits, aims, strikes. But it all becomes ammunition later: *”I’m the one putting in effort, and all you do is moan!”*
I’ve begged my husband: *Let’s rent even a tiny flat—somewhere, anywhere.* But he won’t. *”We can’t afford it. Mum needs us. She’d be gutted…”* Same excuse, every time. He’s afraid to hurt *her*—while I’m the one hurting. Alone.
She insists family dinners *”keep us close.”* But in this house, they end with shouting, slammed doors, and days of silence. All I want is one meal—just one—where I can eat without flinching. Without hearing, *”That was for tomorrow!”* or *”You’ve left crumbs everywhere!”*
I’m exhausted. But there’s no way out. Stuck between generations, between poverty and pride. I want to leave. *Live*, not just survive. But for now? All I can do is wait. Wait for my daughter to grow. For my husband to find his spine. For enough savings to scrape together rent.
And every time I open that fridge, I don’t just hear the hinge creak. I hear her voice, sharp as a blade: *”In *this* house, things go *my* way.”*
