**Life Under a Tyrant’s Boot**
When life backed my husband and me into a corner, we had no choice but to move in with his father in a quiet little town near Manchester. At first, I thought it’d be temporary, but within months, I knew I couldn’t bear another year under that man’s roof. I felt like a servant in the house of a cruel master, and even if we starved, I’d never go back. His treatment of me shattered any hope of peace between us.
My husband’s parents divorced years ago. His father, Geoffrey Hartley, raised him, while his mother remarried and vanished from their lives. Maybe that’s why he despised women. When we first met, he struck me as just a gruff old man—miserable, but harmless. Out of respect for raising my husband alone, I tried to get along. It was pointless.
We didn’t own a flat. Back in Manchester, we rented a room, saving up for our own place—until I fell pregnant, and everything collapsed. Money was tight, and with the baby due soon, we swallowed our pride and asked Geoffrey for shelter. Within days, I regretted it, sensing the hell that awaited me.
I’d never known so much housework. Cleaning, cooking, ironing—it all landed on me as if I weren’t heavily pregnant but some spineless maid. At eight months, my back ached, my belly dragged, yet rest was forbidden. I kept working right up to maternity leave, only to come home to endless chores.
“Think you’re some fine lady, lazing about?” Geoffrey would bark if I dared sit. “Pregnancy ain’t an illness! No one’s mopping floors for you!” Gritting my teeth, I’d grab the mop again, scrubbing corners untouched for years. He showed no mercy, inventing tasks till I nearly collapsed—always when my husband, James, was out. I tried lingering outside to avoid him, but it never worked.
“I’m home from work—where’ve you been loafing?” he’d yell if supper wasn’t ready. “Floors filthy, crumbs underfoot, and she’s off gallivanting!” His words cut like knives. He humiliated me at every turn, and I bit my tongue, not wanting to burden James, who was breaking his back at two jobs just to keep us afloat.
I tried enduring, hoping Geoffrey would soften. Instead, his complaints piled up like snowdrifts—soup too bland, plates streaked, bedsheets mismade. Sometimes his gripes were so absurd I nearly laughed. Floors had to be mopped twice daily; even his shirts were my duty.
“Why should I lift an iron when there’s a woman in the house?” he’d roar. “If my son married some useless lump, he should divorce her! Lazy cow!”
Living with Geoffrey, I finally understood why his wife fled right after giving birth. Bearing him was beyond human strength. I admired her for lasting even a few years. But one day, I snapped.
I was scouring a pan when he stormed in, sneering about how I “couldn’t do anything right.” That contemptuous voice was the last straw. I slammed the pan down, wiped my hands, and wordlessly marched off to pack. Better empty bellies than letting that tyrant wreck my health—and my baby’s.
“Piss off, then!” he screamed, hurling curses as I left.
James came home just then. Seeing me in tears, he barely stopped himself from throttling his father. I pulled him away, and by morning, we’d rented a shoebox of a room. James hasn’t spoken to Geoffrey since. The old man sent vile texts, whining that his son “chose some slut over blood.” That was the end of it.
I’ll never fathom how such a man raised a kind, decent son. Maybe loneliness or jealousy twisted him, but I’ve no energy to care. We’re done with him—for good.
*Sometimes walking away isn’t weakness. It’s survival.*
