If Only You Could Find a Decent Man

**If Only Youd Found a Proper Bloke**

*”When are you finally going to buy a flat?”* Margaret’s voice was sharp, insistent. She sat on the sofa in the rented one-bedroom flat where Sophie and Oliver had lived for the past three years, staring at her daughter as if shed committed a crime.

*”How much longer are you going to mess about renting?”*

Sophie sighed and turned to the window. These conversations had long stopped being merely unpleasanttheyd turned into torture. Ever since Sophie married Oliver, her mother had been on at her. *Wrong choice. Olivers got no property, no money, nothing. What sort of husband is that?* And for three years, Margaret had naggedwhen would they buy their own place? Why were they still renting? Werent they ashamed?

Irritation burned under Sophies ribs, ready to burst out.

*”Were looking for the right place, Mum,”* she finally said, keeping her voice steady. *”The right area, the right price, decent condition. We need something second-hand but refurbished because we cant afford to do it up ourselves. Understand?”*

Margaret scoffed and rolled her eyes so dramatically Sophies fingers clenched into fists.

*”Oh, of course,”* her mother drawled, dripping with sarcasm. *”If only youd found a proper bloke, youd be rolling in it, not scraping for some run-down flat. Youd be looking at new builds. But this? Youre settling for scraps.”*

Sophie stood abruptly, barely stopping herself from shouting.

*”Ive got errands, Mum,”* she muttered dryly, heading for the door.

Margaret kept talking, but Sophie wasnt listening. She saw her mother out, shut the door, and leaned against it, exhaling. Only then did she realise how tense shed beenshoulders aching, jaw sore from gritting her teeth. Lately, every visit from Margaret left her with a headache. Each time, Sophie braced herself for battledefending, justifying, arguing. And all for nothing.

She went to the kitchen, poured herself water from the jug, and sat at the table, taking slow sips to steady herself. Then the phone rang.

*”Soph!”* Olivers voice was electric. *”Ive found it! The perfect flat! You need to come nowIll give you the address. Weve got to move fast, understand? This is our chance!”*

Sophies heart raced. She grabbed a pen, scribbled down the address, and rushed to get ready. She threw on her coat, dashed outside, and hailed a cab. The whole ride, she fidgeted, staring out the window, willing the driver to go faster.

Oliver was waiting outside the building, face glowing, eyes bright.

*”Come on, youve got to see this,”* he said, taking her hand.

The flat was on the third floora modest but cosy two-bed. Freshly decorated, light pouring in. Warm beige walls, wood-effect laminate, double-glazed windows. The furniture stayedsofa, wardrobes, kitchen unitsall clean, well-kept.

*”Look,”* Oliver led her through each room. *”Bedroom here, living room here. Bright kitchen. And the best part? Shops nearby, bus stops, a school just down the road. Everything we need. The price is fairsellers are in a hurry, relocating for work. Weve lucked out.”*

Sophie walked in silence, touching the walls, peeking into cupboards. Warmth spread through her chest. This was *their* flat. She could already picture them living herewhere theyd put their things, mornings drinking tea in the kitchen.

*”Well take it?”* Oliver asked softly, hopeful.
*”Well take it,”* Sophie smiled, and he hugged her.

They agreed the sale on the spotsorted the details, set a date to sign. Then, giddy and breathless, they headed home. Oliver chattered the whole way about moving in, what theyd need to buy, what theyd change. Sophie stayed quiet but smiling. Inside, joy bubbled up so fiercely she wanted to scream, jump, dance.

The next weeks flew by in chaospaperwork, running around, packing. Sophie barely kept up. Life had swept them into a whirlwind, rushing forward without pause. Oliver handled most of the organising, and Sophie was grateful. Finally, moving day came. Boxes were hauled in, furniture arranged, belongings unpacked. And thentheir first evening in their own flat.

Sophie stood in the middle of the living room, just looking around. Oliver came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

*”Our flat,”* he whispered in her ear.
*”Our home,”* Sophie said, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

But the joy didnt last. The next day, the doorbell rang. Sophie opened itMargaret stood there, face pinched with disapproval.

*”Hello,”* her mother grunted, barging in uninvited.

Margaret inspected the flat slowly, peering into every corner, brows furrowed, lips pursed. Finally, she stopped in the middle of the room and asked, voice thick with disappointment:

*”And this is it?”*

Sophie flinched. *”What do you mean?”*

Margaret wrinkled her nose as if standing in a landfill, not a flat. Her eyes skimmed the walls, ceiling, windows.

*”Its tiny and shoddy,”* she declared. *”I thought youd at least get a three-bed. What *is* this? Box rooms, barely a two-bed! A shoebox would be bigger. Is this really how people live?”*

Sophies face burned. Hurt and anger twisted inside her.
Oliver appeared in the doorwayhed heard everything. He tried to smooth things over.

*”Margaret, its our first place,”* he said gently. *”Well save up, maybe move bigger later. For now, its enough. Were happy.”*

Margaret snorted, grabbed her bag, and marched to the door. On the threshold, she turned and spat at Sophie:

*”This flats just like your husband. Useless, dull, and pathetic.”*

The door slammed. Sophie stood frozen, Margarets words echoing, scraping at her insides. She prayed Oliver hadnt heard. She turnedhe was watching her with a sad smile.

*”Its fine,”* he said quietly. *”Dont let it get to you.”*

But Sophie saw the hurt in his eyes. And her heart broke.
Time passed. They settled in, made it home. Sophie filled the windowsills with plants, hung pictures, bought little things to make it cosy.

Then, weeks later, Margaret visited again. Oliver, hearing her voice, shut himself in the bedroom. Sophie led her mother to the kitchen, put the kettle on.

*”You know,”* Margaret started the second she sat, *”every time I see this place, it ruins my mood. Whyd you buy this dump? Explain it to me.”*

Sophie set out teacups, forcing calm.

*”Its all we could afford, Mum.”*
*”All because you rushed into marrying Oliver!”* Margaret snapped, voice rising. *”Normal people buy proper flats. And you? Youre stuck in this hovel.”*

Sophie sat opposite, gripping her cup. The hot porcelain burned her palms.

*”Were happy,”* she said softly but firmly. *”We saved for this. No loans, no debt. We did it ourselves. Whats *your* problem?”*

Margaret near-shrieked:

*”My neighbours daughter lives in a three-bed new build! Doesnt even work, drives a nice car! Because she married a *real* man, not some loser like Oliver!”*

Something inside Sophie snapped. She slammed her cup down. She couldnt take it anymorethree years of pent-up hurt, rage, pain, all bursting out.

*”Brilliant comparison!”* Her voice shook with fury. *”Never mind that her daughters filed for divorce *three times*! Never mind she hides from her husband! Never mind she only stays for the money! Thats *nothing*, is it?”*

Margaret tried to interrupt, but Sophie wasnt done.

*”I *love* Oliver!”* she shouted, jumping up. *”And Im happy with him. Id live under a bridge if he was beside me. Because he loves me too. Hed never raise a hand to me. *That* matters more than cars, flats, or money. He cares for me. And if you cant accept that, you can stay out of *our home*!”*

Margaret gaped, face flushing. She snatched her bag and stormed out. The front door slammed.

Silence settled over the flat. Sophie trembled, trying to steady herself.

The bedroom door opened. Oliver came out and wordlessly pulled her into his arms. Sophie buried her face in his chest and sobbedproper