The Flat and the Husband’s Grumbles
I have my own little flat—cosy, with flowers on the windowsill and an old armchair I adore. After the wedding, Daniel and I decided to live here, and I thought it would be our little haven. But barely two months passed before my husband started moaning about the long commute to work. At first, I thought he was just tired, but now the complaints come every day, and I don’t know how to react anymore. Should I give in and move, or stand my ground because this is my home, my sanctuary? One thing’s certain—his constant grumbling is wearing me down, and I’m afraid it’s just the beginning of our troubles.
Daniel and I married six months ago. Before the wedding, he lived with his parents on the other side of London, while I stayed in my flat, which I’d bought with my parents’ help and a mortgage. It’s small, just a one-bedder, but snug enough for two. I poured my heart into it: painted the walls a warm cream, hung curtains I’d picked myself, put up shelves for my books. When we discussed where to live after the wedding, I suggested my place. Daniel agreed: “Emily, your flat’s closer to the city centre, and having your own place is brilliant.” I was over the moon, imagining us cooking dinners together, watching films, making plans. But it seems my dreams were too rosy.
The first few weeks were fine. Daniel helped with redecorating, we bought a new sofa, even joked that our flat was like a love nest. But then he started coming home from work gloomier than a rainy Manchester afternoon. “Emily,” he’d say, “it took me an hour and a half to get back—traffic was a nightmare.” His office is on the outskirts, and from our place, it really does take an hour, sometimes more if the roads are jammed. I tried to be sympathetic—suggested leaving earlier or finding shortcuts—but it wasn’t enough. “You don’t get it,” he’d grumble. “I waste three hours a day commuting. It’s no way to live.”
I tried to be understanding. “Danny, let’s figure out how to make the journey easier. Maybe we could upgrade the car or try a car-share scheme?” But he’d just wave me off. “A new car won’t fix it, Emily. We should live closer to my job.” Closer? Was he suggesting we move? I asked him outright, and he nodded. “Yeah, it’d be easier if we rented something near the office.” I nearly choked on my tea. Rent? What about my flat? My home, the one I’d spent five years paying off, the one I’d poured love into—just abandon it because he couldn’t be bothered with the drive?
I tried to explain that this flat wasn’t just bricks and mortar to me. It was my first real step toward independence. I was proud of it, even if it was small and not in the poshest part of town. But Daniel looked at me like I was being childish. “Emily, it’s just a flat. We could let it out and live somewhere that suits me better.” Suits *him*? What about me? My office is a twenty-minute walk from here. I love this neighbourhood—the park where I take strolls, the café where I meet my girlfriends, the neighbour who brings me scones. Why should I give all that up?
The tension’s growing by the day. Now Daniel doesn’t just complain about the commute—it’s everything. The flat’s too cramped, the upstairs neighbours are too loud, the place “smells like an old building.” Old? It’s a thirty-year-old redbrick, and I’ve just redecorated! I’m starting to think it’s not just the travel. Maybe he doesn’t want to live in *my* flat because it’s *mine*. I asked him once, “Danny, if we lived at your parents’, would you moan this much?” He hesitated, then muttered, “That’s far too, but at least it’s bigger.” Bigger? So my flat isn’t good enough?
I confided in Mum, hoping for advice. She listened and said, “Emily, marriage is about compromise. If he’s struggling, find a middle ground.” But what middle ground? Rent out my place and move somewhere convenient for him? Or stay here and endure his whinging? I suggested an alternative—Daniel could look for jobs closer to home. He’s an engineer; there are plenty of openings. But he just scoffed. “What, throw away ten years at the company? No chance.” So *I’m* supposed to throw away my home?
Now I’m stuck. Part of me wants to dig my heels in—this is *my* flat, I have a right to live where I’m happy. But another part fears it’ll ruin our marriage. I love Daniel; I don’t want to fight. But his moaning is driving me up the wall. I feel guilty, like *I’m* the one making him miserable. Then I think—why should I be the one to sacrifice? He knew where we’d live when he agreed. Why must I change everything now?
I’ve given myself till the end of the month to decide. Maybe we could rent somewhere halfway between his job and mine? But the thought of my flat sitting empty—or worse, with strangers in it—breaks my heart. Or perhaps Daniel will come to his senses and stop grumbling? I don’t know. For now, I bite my tongue when he starts on about the traffic. But one thing’s clear—this is *my* home, and I won’t let it go. Not even for love. Or maybe love shouldn’t force you to choose?
