I’m 27 Years Old and I Live in a Home Where I Constantly Apologise for Existing – The Most Frightening Thing Is That My Husband Calls It “Normal”

Author Walton MerrittReading 6 minViews 1

Im 27 and living in a house where I constantly apologise simply for existing. Whats worse is my wife calls it normal.

Im 27 and have been married for two years. We dont have children yet. Not because I dont wish for them, but because, right from the start, I told myself: first, we need a home that truly feels like home. Peace. Respect. A sense of belonging. But peace left our flat long ago.

Its not about money. Not about work. Not about serious illness or real tragedy.

Its all because of one woman.

My wifes mother.

At first, I thought she was just a strict sorta controlling type. One of those mothers who always interferes and needs to give her opinion.

I tried to be friendly. Polite. I swallowed it down.

Kept repeating to myself: shes her mum shell settle shell accept me it needs time.

Time, though, didnt settle things.

Time only gave her more confidence.

The first humiliation was something trivial, tossed out as a joke.

Oh, you young wives always so desperate for respect, she smirked.

I smiled to keep things from getting awkward.

Then things moved on to help.

Shed pop round supposedly to drop off jams, bring food, ask how we were. But she always did the same thing.

Shed check around. Inspect. Touch everything.

Why is this like that?

Who told you to put it there?

If I were you, Id never

And it wasnt just said to meit was always in front of my wife.

Who did nothing.

Never told her to stop.

And if I said a word, my wife immediately chimed in:

Oh, do stop, dont get worked up.

I started feeling mad.

Like I was exaggerating.

Like I was the difficult one.

Then came the unannounced visits.

The bell. The key turning in the lock. And she was in.

Always with the same words: Im not a stranger. This feels like home to me.

The first two times, I let it go.

The third time, I asked, calmly:

Would you mind letting me know first? Sometimes Im tired, sometimes Im asleep, sometimes Im working.

She looked at me as if Id insulted her.

Are you going to tell me when I can visit my daughter?

That same evening, my wife had a go at me.

How could you be so rude?

I stood there, dumbfounded.

I wasnt rude. I just set a boundary.

She said, You wont be chasing my mum from my house.

From my house.

Not our house.

Her house.

After that, I shrank.

Stopped moving freely about the place, knowing the bell could go at any moment.

Stopped putting on music.

Stopped laughing loudly.

When I cooked, I worried shed say, Oh, not this again.

When I cleaned, I dreaded her comments: Its still dusty.

And most horriblyI started apologising for everything.

Sorry.

It wont happen again.

I didnt mean to.

I didnt say it like that.

I didnt mean that.

A grown man, 27 years old apologising for breathing.

Last week, she arrived while my wife was at work.

I was in old jogging bottoms, hair a mess, battling a cold.

She burst in without ringing.

Look at you Is this what my daughter deserves?

I didnt reply.

She marched into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

Nothing decent in here.

Opened a cupboard.

Why are those mugs there?

Started rearranging, muttering, fixing.

I just stood.

And then she turned and said:

Ill tell you something to remember: if you want to stay a husband, you need to stay in your place. Not above my daughter.

Thats when something inside me snapped.

No tears. No shouting.

Just an overwhelming feelingId reached the end.

When my wife got back, her mother was sitting on the sofa like royalty.

I quietly said to my wife:

We need to talk. We cant go on like this.

She wouldnt look at me.

Not now.

No, now.

She sighed.

What is it now?

I dont feel at home here. Your mum comes round whenever she likes. She humiliates me. Talks to me like Im a servant.

My wife laughed.

Servant? Dont be ridiculous.

Its not ridiculous.

Then her mum piped up from the sofa:

If he cant put up with it, hes not husband material.

And then came the worst part.

My wife said nothing.

Not a word in my defence.

She sat next to her mum.

And just repeated:

Stop making a scene.

I looked at her, and for the first time, saw her clearly.

She wasnt torn between two women.

Shed chosen a side.

The one that suited her.

I glanced from her mother to her.

And said, simply:

Alright.

No arguments.

No crying.

No explanations.

I just stood and went into the bedroom.

Packed my clothes in a holdall.

Grabbed my documents.

As I walked down the hallway, she leapt up.

What are you doing?!

Im leaving.

Youve gone mad!

No. Ive woken up.

Her mum smiled, triumphant.

Where will you go? Youll come back.

I looked at her calmly.

No. You want a home you can control. I want a home where Im free to breathe.

My wife grabbed my bag handle.

You cant leave just because of my mum.

I looked at her.

Im not leaving because of her.

She froze.

Then because of whom?

Because of you. Because you chose her. And left me alone.

I walked out.

And you know what I felt outside?

The chill, yes.

But also relief.

For the first time in months, I wasnt apologising to anyone.

The lesson I learnt? Sometimes staying silent is worse than any insultwhen someone loves your pain more than your happiness, its time to leave.

Signatures in the Stairwell Sergei paused by the postboxes in the lobby, because a new notice had appeared on the board usually reserved for lost-cat posters and reminders about meter readings. It had been pinned up hastily, at an angle. At the top, in large letters: “Collecting Signatures. Action Must Be Taken.” Below—a surname from the fifth floor and a short list of complaints: late-night noise, banging, shouting, “breach of quiet hours,” “threat to safety.” At the bottom, signatures had begun to gather—some neat, some sprawling. He read it twice, though the meaning was crystal clear at first glance. His fingers reached for the pen in his jacket pocket, but Sergei stopped. Not because he disagreed—he just didn’t like to be pushed. He’d lived in the building twelve years and had learned to keep his distance from block disputes the way you avoid a draught. He already had enough worries: the job at the garage, shift work, his mother after her stroke across town, a teenage son who alternately stayed silent for weeks or exploded over nothing. The landing was quiet, only the distant thud of the lift doors somewhere above. Sergei climbed to his own floor, the fourth, took out his keys, but before unlocking his door, glanced up the stairs to the fifth. That’s where Mrs Valentine lived. In her fifties at a guess, strong-looking, cropped hair, a gaze that always seemed slightly suspicious. She rarely said hello first, answered as if you were an inconvenience. Sergei saw her most often carrying heavy “Tesco” bags or mopping the landing outside her door with a bucket. Sometimes, at night, he really did hear noises from her flat—a crash, a short cry, the scrape of something being dragged. He only checked the residents’ WhatsApp group as needed. It was mostly arguments about parking and the rubbish chute. But recently, it had revolved around a single issue. “Thudding again at two in the morning! My child was frightened!” “I’ve got a 6am start—now I’m a zombie. How much more?” “It’s not thudding, she’s moving furniture, I know it.” “We need to contact the council. There’s a law.” Sergei read and scrolled on. He wasn’t a saint—when a bang woke him at 3 am, he lay there, feeling irritation build in his chest. What he really hoped was that someone else would sort it, so he could wake up and just see: “All sorted.” That evening, he finally messaged the group, briefly: “Who’s collecting signatures? Where’s the sheet?” The block rep, Mrs Nina from number three, replied: “On the ground floor noticeboard. Meeting at mine 7pm tomorrow to discuss. We need to deal with it before it goes too far.” Sergei put down his phone. An unpleasant, familiar feeling stirred inside—the one he’d felt at school meetings, when decisions had already been made and you were just there to tick a box. Next day, he bumped into Mrs Valentine on the stairs. She was struggling up with two heavy bags, breathing hard but stubbornly refusing help. Sergei took one anyway, unasked. “Don’t,” she said sharply. “I’ll carry it,” he replied, walking with her. She stayed silent until her door, then snatched the bag handles back. “Thank you,” she said, in a tone that sounded more like a register-mark than gratitude. Sergei was about to go when he heard a strange sound from inside her flat—someone breathing heavily, moaning. Mrs Valentine froze, her key trembling in the lock. “Is everything… alright?” Sergei asked, not knowing why. “Fine,” she clipped, and quickly went in. He went down to his own flat, but the sound stayed in his mind—not a crash, not music, just that heavy, human noise. A few days later, a note appeared on Mrs Valentine’s door, stuck with tape: “ENOUGH WITH THE NOISE AT NIGHT. WE DON’T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS.” The letters were fat, pressed hard, marker squeaking anger. Sergei stared at the note; the glint of tape was like a fresh wound. It revived a childhood memory: people used to write on his own family’s door when his dad drank and shouted. Back then, Sergei hadn’t even hated his dad as much as he hated neighbours pretending nothing was wrong—until they started whispering. He climbed to the fifth floor and listened. Silence behind the door. Sergei didn’t ring. He carefully removed the note, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he took it outside and threw it in the street bin—not the building one, so nobody would see. In the group chat, the debate turned nastier. “She does it deliberately. She doesn’t care about anyone.” “People like that should be moved out. Let her buy a house.” “Police officer says we need a combined statement.” Sergei noticed how quickly ‘noise’ and ‘disturbance’ became ‘people like that’. Like they’d stopped talking about midnight racket and started talking about a person as a problem. Saturday, Sergei came home late. The lift smelt of air freshener and cigarettes. On the fourth floor, he stepped out and heard a dull crash overhead, then another—not DIY noises, but like something heavy falling. Then a woman’s strained voice: “Hold on… just a minute…” Sergei went up to five. The peephole on Mrs Valentine’s door glowed; light spilled out onto the floorboards. He knocked. “Who’s there?”—her strained voice. “Sergei, from four. Are you—” She opened the door on the chain. Bathrobe, a red smear on her cheek as if she’d just wiped her face. “Everything’s fine. Please go,” she said. A hoarse groan came from inside. Sergei blurted out, “Do you need help?” She looked at him as if he’d offered her charity. “No. I have it under control.” “There’s someone—” “My brother. Bedbound.” She said it quickly, to cut off questions. “Please go.” She closed the door. Sergei stood on the landing, feeling torn—part of him wanting to leave because that’s what she’d asked, part wanting to stay, because he’d already heard too much to pretend he didn’t know. He went downstairs, but couldn’t sleep. The word “bedbound” rattled in his head—someone falling, being hauled up, ambulances in the night, bedpans and water fetched, a bed pushed against a wall as the neighbours below seethed. He went to the meeting at Nina’s flat not out of curiosity, but because if he didn’t, he knew he’d feel ashamed after. At seven, people were already queuing at her door—some in slippers, some with jackets hurriedly thrown on. Speaking in low voices, but tension hung in the air. Nina sat everyone around her cramped kitchen table. The signature sheet lay in the middle, next to a printout of the “quiet hours” bylaw and the police community officer’s number. “Here’s the situation,” she began. “We can’t keep putting up with this. We have children, we have work. I take my blood pressure every morning now because I don’t sleep at night. We’re not against anyone, but there are rules.” Sergei noticed how deftly she’d said “not against anyone,” as if the phrase itself soothed people. “I woke up at two again,” said a young, tired-looking woman from six. “My baby had only just nodded off, then that bang—it was like a wardrobe falling. I spent the rest of the night soothing him.” “My dad’s post-op,” said a man in a tracksuit. “He can’t get stressed. He hears this and panics there’s a fire.” “We should call the police every time,” someone else chipped in. “Build a record.” Sergei listened, realising people weren’t exaggerating—they were genuinely exhausted. It made their case strong. “Has anyone actually talked to her?” Sergei asked. “I have,” Nina said. “She was rude. Said ‘If you don’t like it, move out,’ and slammed the door.” “She’s always like that,” said the young woman. “Like we owe her something.” Sergei almost mentioned the brother, but stopped. Wasn’t sure he had the right. Silence was a choice too. “Maybe she’s got…” he started. “We’ve all got something,” Nina cut in. “But we don’t slam around at night.” At that moment, the doorbell rang. Nina went to answer it. Mrs Valentine entered in a dark jacket, hair smoothed, folder and phone in hand. Her face was tight, but not afraid. “I hear I’m the subject of discussion?” she said. The air thickened, like a crowded lift. “We’re discussing the problem,” Nina clarified. “You disturb the neighbours.” “I disturb,” repeated Mrs Valentine, nodding slightly as if agreeing with some private thought. “Alright then. Listen.” She laid her folder on the table, opened it, produced a few papers, a doctor’s note, some prescriptions, her phone. “My brother. First-degree disability. Stroke. Completely immobile. At night, he has attacks. Stops breathing, falls out of bed if I’m too slow. I have to turn him every two hours, or he gets sores. That’s not ‘moving furniture’. That’s me lifting a full-grown man heavier than I am.” Her voice was steady but wavered with exhaustion. Sergei saw bruises on her arms, like proof of the weight she bore. “Three times this month, I’ve had to call an ambulance.” She showed her phone, log of calls. “Doctor’s notes, prescriptions. I shouldn’t have to show you this, but you’re gathering signatures like I’m running a nightclub.” Someone coughed. The young woman from six looked down. “We didn’t know,” she said quietly. “Didn’t know because you didn’t ask,” Mrs Valentine shot back. “You wrote on my door. Abused me online. Called for ‘action’. What action? Want me to drag him onto the landing so it’s quieter for you?” “No one said that,” Nina snapped, “but there are laws. You can’t be loud after eleven.” “The law,” Mrs Valentine snorted. “Fine. Let’s have the law. I’ll call the ambulance and police every time, so they can record me lifting him. You’ll sign off every time—witness statements, yes?” “So we’re just supposed to put up with it?” said Tracksuit Man. His voice broke; Sergei suddenly recognised the strain in him. “My dad’s ill too, I’ve said. I can’t take this every night!” “And you think I can?”—Mrs Valentine fixed him with a direct stare. “You think I want this? You think I get any sleep?” Silence. Nina sighed, a little softer: “You have to understand. People are struggling. If you’d only explained…” “Explained what? That my brother might die in the night? I don’t know how to ask for help. Don’t have anyone to ask.” Sergei realised it was true. They lived “next” to each other, but were never truly neighbours. Just doors. “Can we not shout,” he managed hoarsely. “We’ll either tear each other apart or try to make it bearable for everyone.” All eyes turned to him. Sergei didn’t like being the centre, but it was too late to hide. “I didn’t sign,” he said. “And I won’t. That doesn’t solve it, only creates enemies. But ignoring the noise isn’t right either. People have a point.” Nina pursed her lips. “So what do you suggest?” Sergei thought of the night he’d stood listening to someone moaning. “First, let’s communicate. Mrs Valentine, if you know there’s going to be noise—ambulance, an attack—could you send a quick message to the group? Just ‘Ambulance’ or ‘Attack’. No details, but so people know it’s not drilling.” “I don’t have to,” she snapped, then paused. “Alright. When possible.” “Second,” Sergei addressed the room, “if you hear something loud, instead of threatening the council, why not call or knock? Not with complaints—just check if she needs help. If she doesn’t answer—then take it from there.” “What if she’s rude again?” said the young mum. “Then at least you’ll know you did the decent thing,” Sergei replied. “That matters—for yourselves, not just her.” Nina snorted, but didn’t argue. “And,” Sergei added, turning to Mrs Valentine, “maybe we can look at rubber mats, pads for the furniture legs, moving the bed… I can help, if need be.” Mrs Valentine thought, voice quieter: “The bed won’t move. The hoist is fixed to the frame. But mats—yes. And if someone could sit for an hour during the day sometimes, so I can go to the chemist…” She trailed off. Someone shifted in their chair. “I can do Wednesday,” the mum from six offered, blushing. “My mum’s nearby, she can mind the baby. I’ll pop in.” “Me too,” muttered Tracksuit Man. “Not nights, but during the day, I can help lift him, if that helps.” Sergei felt the tension ease, just a fraction. Nina picked up the signature sheet. “What do we do with this?” Sergei glanced at the names. Even the neighbour who always smiled signed. “I think it should come off the board. If someone needs to make a formal complaint, do it individually, with facts—not just ‘take action’.” “So, you’re against order?” Nina put force into the word. “I’m for order,” Sergei replied. “But order shouldn’t be a sledgehammer.” Mrs Valentine looked up. “Take it down, please. I don’t want to come down every day and see the whole block signing against me.” Nina folded the sheet and put it away. Sergei wondered if she did it begrudgingly or because she sensed the mood had shifted. People left quietly. On the landing, someone attempted a joke; it fizzled out. Sergei and Mrs Valentine left together. “You shouldn’t have got involved,” she said. “Maybe not,” Sergei replied. “But I didn’t want it ending with the police.” “It will anyway—next time he gets worse.” Sergei wanted to ask the brother’s name, but couldn’t. Instead he said, “If you really get stuck at night, if you need help lifting—knock. I’m nearby.” She nodded, not looking at him. Next day, the notice was gone. Instead, a new message was posted in the group: “Agreed: in emergencies, Mrs Valentine will give a heads up. Please, no disputes at night. Daytime help—sign up with me.” Sergei was surprised by the word “rota”. It sounded more formal than their little block deserved. An hour later, people were genuinely arranging days—Monday, Friday, some just stayed silent. The first night after, the banging didn’t stop. At 2:17am, Sergei was jolted awake. In the group, a single message: “Attack. Ambulance on its way.” No emojis. No pleas. Sergei lay listening to doors slamming above, footsteps on the stairs. Imagined Mrs Valentine holding her brother, stopping him from choking. The old anger didn’t vanish, but something heavier replaced it. Next morning, in the lift, Nina looked rumpled. “Well, it was noisy again last night,” she said. “Ambulance was here,” Sergei replied. “I… I saw. I didn’t know it was like that. But still—Sergei, I really can’t sleep. My heart…” He nodded. He couldn’t substitute her heart. “Maybe earplugs?” he suggested, wincing at how weak it sounded. “Earplugs—” Nina gave a gentle, tired laugh. “Look what we’ve come to.” A week later, Sergei dropped by Mrs Valentine’s. He had a pack of rubber pads for the furniture and a heavy floor mat. She opened the door at once, as though expecting him. The flat smelt of medicine, sharp like a hospital. In the room: a bed jammed against the wall. On it, a thin man, unmoving, eyes open but staring ahead. Nearby, a homemade hoist, bolted in place. Sergei saw why the bed “couldn’t be moved.” “Here,” he offered, showing her the mat. “If we slip this under, maybe the sound won’t carry. And these for the stool—you said it bangs?” “The stool bangs when I put the basin down,” she said. “I try, but my hands…” She gazed at her palms, cracked from constant scrubbing. Sergei quietly helped put the mat in place, gentle so as not to disturb the hoist. His own back twinged from the effort. Mrs Valentine watched anxiously. “Thank you,” she said, and this time, it sounded different. Sergei nodded, ready to leave when her phone rang. She listened, her face clouded. “No, I can’t, not now… Yes. No.” She hung up and looked at Sergei. “Social services. They said only two hours a week for a carer—if I wait my turn. But I need help daily.” Sergei didn’t answer. He knew their DIY “rota” was just a sticking plaster. That evening, someone in the group wrote: “Why should we help? It’s her family—do it properly.” Replies flew; some angry, some explaining, some just full stops. Sergei scrolled past. He was weary, not of Mrs Valentine, but of how easily any act of kindness devolved into a fight over what’s fair. A few days later, a new sheet showed up on the downstairs board—not demanding “action”, but a timetable: days, times, names. At the bottom—Mrs Valentine’s number and a note: “If it’s an emergency at night, I’ll message. If you can help lift or meet the ambulance, let me know.” This sheet hung tidily. Sergei found he disliked seeing it almost as much as the signatures—only now, it was for another reason. The block had admitted: calamity could be scheduled, slotted neatly onto a timetable. One night, the noise was too much, and Sergei climbed upstairs. Mrs Valentine was cursing under her breath—as if at a body that wouldn’t obey. He knocked. She opened, no chain. “Help me,” she said simply. Inside, her brother was sprawled on the floor, gasping. Together, they lifted him back to bed—slow, careful, back muscles straining. Mrs Valentine didn’t cry or thank him, just adjusted his pillow, checked his breath. As Sergei left, he heard a neighbour opening their door, peeking out quietly. Then it shut. No one came to help, no one called out. The block held its breath. Morning—Sergei saw Victor, who’d signed against Mrs Valentine, avoiding his gaze. “Look—I, I signed because, well, it got to me. But I didn’t know—I wouldn’t have…” “I get it,” Sergei said. “Doesn’t matter now. What matters is what we do next.” Victor nodded, face tight, unwilling to admit fault. The compromise worked. Not perfectly, but it worked. At night, sometimes a “Ambulance” or “Fallen” pinged in the chat. People were less likely to vent their rage at 2am, more likely to grumble in the morning once tempers cooled. Some dropped in to help Mrs Valentine, others did it once and faded away. Nina kept the rota, but empty slots opened up. Sergei noticed less small talk in the block. People said hello more cautiously, as if every word risked starting another argument. No more nasty notes, but also none of the old friendliness. Even lightbulb discussions sounded tense: “Let’s not go there again.” One evening, Sergei found Mrs Valentine by the lift, bag of medicines and a flask in hand, her face grey from exhaustion. “How is he?” he asked. “He’s alive,” she said. “Quiet today.” They went up together. On the fourth floor, Sergei lingered a moment. “If you ever—need anything—knock.” She nodded, then added quietly, “At the meeting, I… I didn’t mean—” She couldn’t finish, waved a hand. “I know,” Sergei said. The lift doors slid shut; Sergei was left on the landing alone. He opened his door, shrugged off his coat, lined up his shoes on the mat. The flat was silent: his son in headphones, his mum on the phone asking when he’d visit. Sergei stared at his screen, then at the door that led back to the stairwell. He thought about those sheets of paper that can change people—one with signatures against someone, another with names of those able to help for an hour. And how the distance between those sheets was somehow shorter than the distance between neighbours living through just one wall. That night, the chat filled up with posts about rubbish and the lift. Someone thanked those who’d helped that day; asked to keep things private in future. The message was quickly drowned in everyday chat. Sergei turned off his phone, set the kettle to boil. He knew he might be woken by a crash in the night—and knew, now, that when he did, his thoughts wouldn’t just be about his own sleep. It didn’t make him better. It just made him part of it.