Alright, so here’s the thing—I’ve got this little flat of mine, cozy as anything, with flowers on the windowsill and this old armchair I absolutely love. After we got married, Daniel and I decided to live here, and I really thought it’d be our little slice of heaven. But barely two months in, he starts moaning about how far it is to his work. At first, I figured he was just tired, but now it’s every single day, and I’m at a loss. Do I give in and move, or stand my ground because, well, it’s my home, my castle? One thing’s clear, though—his grumbling’s starting to grate on me, and I’m worried it’s just the beginning of our issues.
We’ve been married six months now. Before the wedding, he lived with his parents clear across town, while I was in this flat I bought with a bit of help from my folks and a mortgage. It’s a one-bed, small but snug enough for two. I poured my heart into it—painted the walls warm cream, hung curtains I picked myself, put up shelves for my books. When we talked about where to live after tying the knot, I suggested my place. Daniel agreed, saying, “Emily, your place is closer to town, and owning a home’s brilliant.” I was over the moon, imagining us cooking dinners, watching telly, making plans. Turns out, I was a bit too optimistic.
The first few weeks were fine. Daniel helped with bits of decorating, we bought a new sofa together, even joked about our flat being our little love nest. But then he started coming home from work in a right mood. “Emily,” he’d say, “took me an hour and a half today, traffic’s a nightmare.” His office is out in the suburbs, and from our place, it is a solid hour’s drive, sometimes more if the roads are bad. I felt for him, suggested leaving earlier or finding shortcuts. But that wasn’t enough. “You don’t get it,” he’d grumble. “Three hours a day wasted on commuting. It’s no way to live.”
I tried to be understanding. Said, “Dan, let’s figure out how to make it easier. Maybe upgrade the car or try car-sharing?” But he’d just wave me off. “A car won’t fix it, Emily. We need to live closer to my job.” Closer? Was he suggesting we move? I asked him straight out, and he nodded. “Yeah, it’d be easier if we rented near the office.” I nearly choked on my tea. Rent? What about my flat? My home, the one I’ve been paying off for five years, the one I’ve put so much into? Just ditch it and move across town because he’s inconvenienced?
I tried to explain—this flat isn’t just bricks and mortar to me. It’s my first big achievement, my independence. I’m proud of it, even if it’s small and not in the poshest area. But Daniel looked at me like I was being daft and said, “Emily, it’s just a flat. We could let it out and live somewhere that works better for me.” Better for him? What about me? I’m a twenty-minute walk from my job here. I love this neighbourhood—the park where I take walks, the café where I meet my mates, the neighbour who brings me scones. Why should I give all that up?
It’s getting worse by the day. Now Daniel’s moaning about everything—the flat’s too cramped, the neighbours upstairs are loud, it “smells like an old building.” Old? It’s a thirty-year-old terrace, and I’ve just redone it! I’m starting to think it’s not just the commute. Maybe he doesn’t want to live in my place because it’s mine? I asked him once, “Dan, if we lived with your parents, would you complain this much?” He hesitated, then muttered, “Still far, but at least it’s more space.” More space? So my flat isn’t good enough?
I rang my mum for advice. She listened and said, “Emily, marriage is about compromise. If he’s struggling, find a middle ground.” But what’s the middle? Let out my flat and move where it suits him? Or stay here and put up with his moaning? I suggested an alternative—maybe Daniel could find a job closer to us. He’s an engineer; there are plenty of openings. But he just scoffed. “Are you mad? I’ve been at this firm ten years. I’m not throwing that away.” So I’m supposed to throw away my home, then?
Now I’m stuck. Part of me wants to dig my heels in—it’s my flat, I’ve every right to live where I’m happy. But the other part’s terrified this’ll wreck our marriage. I love Daniel; I don’t want to fight. But his complaining’s driving me up the wall. I even 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 be living when he agreed to it. Why’s it all on me to change now?
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 my flat sitting empty, or worse, with strangers in it, breaks my heart. Or maybe Daniel will come round and stop whinging? I don’t know. For now, I’m just biting my tongue when he starts up about the traffic. But one thing’s certain—this is my home, and I don’t want to lose it. Not even for love. Or maybe love shouldn’t mean having to choose?
