The Flat and a 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 within months, my husband started whinging about the long commute to work. At first, I thought he was just tired, but now the complaints are daily, and I don’t know how to respond. Should I give in and move, or stand my ground? After all, this is my home, my sanctuary. One thing’s certain: his sulking is wearing me down, and I fear it’s only the beginning of our troubles.
We married six months ago. Before that, he lived with his parents on the other side of London, while I was in my flat—bought with my parents’ help and a mortgage. It’s small, just one bedroom, but it’s snug enough for two. I poured my heart into it: painted the walls warm cream, hung curtains I chose myself, filled shelves with books. When we talked about where to live after the wedding, I suggested my place. Daniel agreed. “Emily, your flat’s closer to the city centre, and owning a place is brilliant,” he said. I was over the moon, imagining us cooking dinners, watching films, making plans. But my dreams turned out to be too rosy.
For the first few weeks, all was well. Daniel helped with the decor, we bought a new sofa together, even joked that our flat was a cosy little nest. But then he started coming home from work grim-faced. “Emily,” he’d say, “it took me an hour and a half today—traffic was a nightmare.” His office is in Croydon, and from ours, it’s easily an hour or more if the roads are clogged. I sympathised, suggesting he leave earlier or try different routes. But nothing helped. “You don’t get it,” he grumbled. “I’m wasting three hours every day just getting to and from work. This isn’t living.”
I tried to be understanding. “Dan, let’s figure out how to make it easier. Maybe we could upgrade the car or try a car share?” But he’d just wave me off. “A car won’t fix it, Emily. We need to live closer to my work.” Closer? Was he suggesting we move? I asked him outright, and he nodded. “Yeah, it’d be simpler if we rented something near the office.” I nearly choked on my tea. Rented? What about my flat? My home, the one I’ve spent five years paying off, decorating with love? Just abandon it because he finds the commute a hassle?
I tried to explain that this flat isn’t just bricks and mortar to me. It’s my first real step into independence—something I’m proud of, even if it’s 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 can rent it out and live somewhere that works better for me.” Better for him? What about me? My office is a twenty-minute walk from here. I love this area—the park where I stroll, the café where I meet friends, the neighbour who brings me homemade scones. Why should I give all that up?
Tensions rise by the day. Now Daniel whinges about everything—the flat’s too cramped, the upstairs neighbours are noisy, it “smells like an old building.” Old? It’s a thirty-year-old purpose-built, and I just redid the place! I’ve started wondering if it’s not just the commute. Maybe he doesn’t want to live in *my* home at all. Once, I asked, “Dan, if we lived with your parents, would you complain this much?” He hesitated, then muttered, “It’s farther, but at least there’s space.” Space? So my flat isn’t good enough?
I turned to my mum for advice. She listened, then said, “Emily, marriage is about compromise. If he’s struggling, find a middle ground.” But what middle ground? Rent out my flat and move for his convenience? Or stay here, enduring his sulking? I suggested another solution—what if Daniel found a job closer to home? He’s an engineer; there are plenty of openings. But he scoffed. “Are you serious? I’ve been at this firm ten years—I’m not throwing that away.” So *I* should throw away my home instead?
Now I’m stuck. Part of me wants to dig in my heels—this is my home, and I have a right to live where I’m happy. But another part fears our marriage won’t survive this. I love Daniel; I don’t want to fight. Yet his complaints are driving me mad. Sometimes I feel guilty, like *I’m* the one making him miserable. Then I think—he knew where we’d live when he agreed. Why should I be the one to change everything?
I’ve given myself till the end of the month to decide. Maybe we could rent somewhere halfway between his work and mine? But the thought of strangers in my flat, or it sitting empty, breaks my heart. Or perhaps Daniel will snap out of it and stop grumbling? I don’t know. For now, I bite my tongue when he starts on about the traffic. One thing’s certain: this is my home, and I won’t give it up. Not even for love. Or maybe love shouldn’t force you to choose.
