So, listen to this—me and Oliver have been together for ages, right? Things were moving slowly but steady. He was always sweet, doing little things to make me feel loved. Then he finally popped the question, and of course, I said yes. We were over the moon, making all these plans—until everything went sideways.
His parents went off on holiday and suggested we house-sit for them. Oliver was dead keen—said it’d be like a trial run for living together. I was a bit iffy—someone else’s house, barely know his parents, and all that responsibility—but love conquers all, or so I thought.
At first, it was perfect. I threw myself into it—cooking, cleaning, making the place spotless. Oliver hardly lifted a finger, saying his job was to bring in the money, and mine was to keep things cozy. Fine by me—he earns well, and I didn’t mind playing house.
Then his parents came back.
I’d scrubbed the place top to bottom: floors, windows, dusted every shelf, even rearranged the kitchen. Baked a cake, made a proper roast—wanted them to *feel* welcome. But instead of thanks? A slap in the face. Oliver, looking awkward, told me his mum thinks I’m sloppy.
*”You didn’t scrub the loo, the bath’s a mess, and the kitchen looks like a bomb hit it,”* he said. *”Oh, and the cake’s rubbish.”*
I was *gutted*. I’d put in so much effort, just to be torn down. Any normal person would’ve said cheers for the clean-up, but no—she was *looking* for faults. Like she’d already decided I wasn’t good enough.
After that, Oliver changed. Stopped talking about the wedding like before, stopped making plans. And that’s when I panicked. Was one word from his mum really enough to wreck us?
What else was I supposed to do? Maybe I shouldn’t have said yes so fast. If I couldn’t win her over with actual effort, what’s waiting for me after marriage? Endless criticism? Fighting for Oliver’s attention?
Honestly? I *wish* I’d just acted like a guest. Kept my head down, done nothing—maybe then they’d have nothing to moan about.
Oliver used to say he wanted us to live with them till we saved up for our own place. But now? *No chance.* If there’s no respect, I’m not setting foot in that house again.
Now I’m stuck: do I keep fighting for him—for this family that doesn’t want me—or do I walk? If they don’t respect me now, love isn’t magically showing up later.
Maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s them—a family that’s just not ready to let someone in.
