**Diary Entry**
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 Wilson. In an old three-bedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. We stay because we can’t afford to live anywhere 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 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 might be difficult, but she’s our daughter’s grandmother. And she does help—watching the little one while I dash to the chemist or the clinic. But as time passes, it gets harder. It’s like treading through a minefield. One wrong step, and everything explodes. At first, it was small things: leaving a plate unwashed after dinner, not wiping down the cooker. Then came the jabs: “Your pasta’s gone off again,” or “Why did you eat my yoghurt?”—even though I never touched it.
I put up with it. Truly. But one day, when she accused me of making her chicken soup “disappear,” I snapped. I suggested dividing the fridge. Honestly, and kindly: the top shelf for her, the middle one for us. You cook your meals, we’ll cook ours. No more bickering. Each to their own.
Margaret froze, then erupted:
“What on earth are you on about? Even when I shared a dorm with six other girls back in uni, no one split the fridge! Everything was shared. Are we family or strangers? So, I make stew, and you lot say, ‘No thanks, we’ve got our own’? How do you explain to a toddler that the banana on the bottom shelf is Granny’s and she can’t touch it? Absolute nonsense! Not in my house!”
And that’s the crux—it *is* her house. She never lets us forget, not for a day. If we change so much as a towel or move a mug, she’s quick to remind us: “This is *my* flat. What I say goes.” No subtlety, just straight to the point.
On the other hand, she knows where to find the cheapest meat, which corner shop has yoghurt on sale, and where to get discounted veg. She dashes between markets like a woman on a mission, bringing home bags of food for pennies. Sometimes I envy her—I haven’t the time or energy for it. I buy what’s closest, even if it costs more. Meanwhile, she’s like a sniper: patient, precise. But then comes the lecture: “I do all this, and all you do is complain!”
I’ve talked to my husband. Begged him: let’s rent even a tiny place on the city’s edge, just to have our own space. But he refuses. “We can’t afford it. Mum needs us. She’ll be hurt.” Every time. He won’t upset her, but no one seems to care about upsetting *me*.
Margaret insists shared dinners “keep the family close.” Ours end in shouting, slamming doors, and days of silence. Sometimes I just want to eat without fearing a snapped, “That was for tomorrow!” or, “You didn’t wipe the table again!”
I’m exhausted. But there’s no way out. We’re stuck—between generations, between poverty and endurance. I want to leave. To *live*, not just survive. But for now, all I can do is wait. Wait for our daughter to grow, for my husband to find his spine, for pennies to turn into pounds.
And every time I open that fridge, it’s not the hinge that creaks. It’s her voice, sharp as ever: “In *my* house, things are done *my* way.”
