If You Had Found a Decent Man Instead

**Diary Entry**

Mums voice was sharp, relentless. When are you two finally going to buy a flat? She sat on the sofa in our rented one-bedroom in Manchester, glaring at me as if Id committed some unforgivable crime. How much longer will you put up with renting?

I sighed and turned toward the window. These conversations werent just unpleasant anymorethey were torture. Ever since I married Oliver, Mum had been relentless. He wasnt good enough. No house, no money, nothing. Why had I settled for him? For three years, shed demanded to know when wed buy a place, why we still rented, if we werent ashamed of living like this.

Irritation simmered under my ribs, threatening to spill over.

Were looking for the right place, Mum, I said, forcing calm into my voice. The right area, price, condition. We need a resale with decent interiors because we cant afford renovations. Do you understand?

Mum scoffed, rolling her eyes so dramatically my fists clenched.

Of course, she drawled, dripping with sarcasm. If youd married a proper man, youd be living the high life, not hunting for cheap flats. Youd be in a new build, not scraping by like this.

I stood abruptly, barely holding back the urge to scream.

Ive got errands, Mum, I muttered, striding to the door.

She kept talking, but I didnt listen. I saw her out, shut the door behind her, and leaned against it, exhaling. Only then did I realise how tense Id beenshoulders aching, jaw sore from clenching my teeth. Lately, every conversation with Mum left me with a headache. I braced for battle the moment she arrived, defending, justifying, arguingall for nothing.

I walked to the kitchen, poured water from the jug, and sat at the table, sipping slowly to steady myself. Then the phone rang.

Vicky! Olivers voice was electric. Ive found it! The perfect flat! You need to come nowthis is our chance!

My heart raced. I scribbled the address, threw on my jacket, and hailed a cab. The whole ride, I fidgeted, urging the driver faster in my head.

Oliver waited outside the building, beaming, eyes alight.

Come on, youll love it, he said, taking my hand.

The flat was on the third floor. A cosy two-bed with fresh decorneutral walls, wooden laminate floors, double-glazed windows. The owners were leaving furnituresofas, wardrobes, a fitted kitchenall clean, well-kept.

Oliver led me through each room. Lookbedroom here, living room there. Bright kitchen. And the locations perfectshops, bus stops, a school nearby. The price is fair. Theyre moving fastwere lucky.

I wandered silently, touching walls, peering into cupboards. Warmth spread through my chest. This was *ours*. I could picture us heremorning tea in the kitchen, our things filling the space.

Do we take it? Oliver asked softly.

We take it, I smiled, and he pulled me into a hug.

We agreed to the deal on the spot, arranging paperwork before heading home, giddy. Oliver chattered about moving in, what wed need to buy, how wed make it ours. I stayed quiet but grinnedjoy bubbled inside me, so fierce I wanted to scream, dance, leap.

The next weeks blurredpaperwork, packing, endless errands. Oliver handled most of it, and I was grateful. Finally, moving day arrived. We unpacked, arranged furniture, settled in. That first evening, I stood in the living room, just taking it in. Oliver wrapped his arms around me from behind.

Our flat, he whispered.

Our home, I said, tears slipping free.

But the happiness didnt last. The next day, the doorbell rang. Mum stood there, disapproval etched on her face.

Hello, she grumbled, brushing past me.

She inspected every corner, lips pursed, brows furrowed. Finally, she stopped. *This* is it?

I blinked. What do you mean?

She wrinkled her nose like shed stepped into a landfill. Its tiny. Shoddy. I thought youd at least get a three-bed. This isnt even a proper two-bedmore like a glorified bedsit. Is this really how people live?

My face burned. Oliver appeared, clearly having heard.

Margaret, its our first home, he said gently. Well save, maybe move up later. But were happy.

Mum huffed, snatched her bag, and turned at the door. This flat is just like your husbanduseless, dingy, and pathetic.

The slam echoed. I stood frozen, her words clawing at me. Olivers sad smile cracked my heart further.

Its fine, he murmured. Dont let it get to you.

But I saw the hurt in his eyes.

Weeks passed. We nestedflowers on the windowsills, framed photos, little touches making it ours. Then Mum visited again. Oliver retreated to the bedroom while I made tea.

You know, she started, every time I see this place, it ruins my mood. Why did you buy this shoebox?

I set cups down carefully. Its what we could afford.

Because you married Oliver! she snapped. Proper people buy proper homesnot this hovel.

I gripped my scorching cup. Were happy. We saved, no debts. Whats your problem?

My neighbours daughter has a three-bed new build! Doesnt work, drives a Mercedes! *Thats* what happens when you marry a real man!

Something snapped.

Brilliant comparison! I shouted. Never mind that shes filed for divorce three times! That she hides from him! That she stays for the money! But *I* love Oliver! Id live under a bridge with himbecause he loves me too. Hed never raise a hand to me. That matters more than flats or cars or money. If you cant accept that, dont come back!

Mum gaped, flushed, then stormed out. Silence fell.

Oliver emerged, holding me as I sobbed into his chest.

Im sorry, I choked. Sorry for her. Sorry she says those things

Shhh, he whispered, kissing my hair. Its alright. Id live under a bridge with you too.

I looked up through tears and smiled. We werent rich. No three-bed new build, no fancy car. But we had each otherfully, fiercely. And that was everything.