I can’t stand living with my husband’s grandmother any longer. It’s absolute torture!
Sometimes it feels like I’m not living in a flat but in a museum where nothing can be touched. For months, I’ve been begging my husband to move out, even if it’s just renting somewhere, because living under the same roof as his gran is pure misery. She won’t let anyone touch a single thing—no dusting, no rearranging, nothing. Everything is “an antique” or “sentimental,” and if I dare do something my way, suddenly her “heart flutters” or her “blood pressure spikes.” Within half an hour, the whole family knows about it because she rings them all to complain.
Before we married, we took out a mortgage on a flat. Our parents gifted us a decent sum for the wedding, and I was over the moon—finally, a place of our own where I could be in charge. We both worked, kept up with payments, and everything was fine… until I found out I was pregnant. It was a complete shock—I’d been on birth control. At first, I was terrified and even considered not going through with it, but my husband and parents all said, “Absolutely not!”
I kept working until the birth, and we managed. But once our daughter was born, everything fell apart—we were down to one salary. My husband took on any extra work he could to keep us afloat. Moving back with my parents wasn’t an option—their place was cramped—and his parents already had his younger brother and wife living with them.
That’s when his gran stepped in. She offered to let us move in with her—three bedrooms, plenty of space. I didn’t know her well, but she seemed pleasant enough. We agreed, started renting out our flat, and things eased up financially… but not mentally.
At first, it was bearable. Then the nightmare began. In Gran’s house, nothing can be touched. Nothing. Not even by the baby! If our daughter grabs something or crawls where she shouldn’t, Gran acts like it’s the end of the world. She accuses me of letting the child misbehave on purpose just to kill her off! When my husband gets home from work, she spins this dramatic tale—I’m a terrible mother, I don’t watch the baby, I’m disrespectful, I’ve got no manners. And him? He just shrugs like it’s nothing. To him, this must be normal. To me, it’s unbearable. I’m at my breaking point.
I beg him—let’s go back to our flat. Even if we’re skint, even if we have to scrimp, at least it’ll be without this madness. He asks me to hold on a bit longer. Says we’ll move out when my maternity leave ends. But I don’t know how I’ll last that long.
I offered to swap roles—he stays home, I go back to work. Let him spend a day with this “sweet old lady” and see how he likes it. He refused. So I gave him an ultimatum—if we don’t move out next month, I’m taking our daughter and going to my parents in Manchester. He went quiet. Now I’m waiting. Not for words—for action. Because I can’t take this another day.
