Apartment and husband’s complaints

**The apartment and my husband’s complaints**

I have my own apartment, small but cozy, with flowers in the window and an old armchair that I adore. After we got married, Diego and I decided to live here, and I thought it would be our little paradise. However, only a couple of months later my husband started complaining about how far away his job was. At first, I thought he was just tired, but now the complaints are daily, and I don’t know how to react. Should I give in and move, or stand my ground because this is my home, my refuge? But I’m sure of one thing: his grumbling is starting to overwhelm me, and I fear this is only the beginning of our problems.

We got married six months ago. Before the wedding, Diego lived with his parents in the suburbs, while I already had my apartment, bought with help from my parents and a mortgage. It’s not big—it’s a studio apartment—but it’s enough for both of us. I poured all my love into it: I painted the walls a warm beige, hung curtains I’d carefully chosen, and put up shelves with my books. When we decided on a place to live, I suggested my apartment. Diego accepted: “Lucia, your house is closer to the center, and having something of our own is cool.” I was happy, imagining how we would cook together, watch movies, and make plans. But it seems my dreams were too optimistic.

The first few weeks were fine. Diego helped with some repairs, we bought a new sofa, and we even joked that our apartment was like a nest. But then he started coming home from work in a bad mood. “Lucia, it took me an hour and a half to get here today; the traffic is unbearable,” he said. His office is on the outskirts of town, and the commute from our apartment takes an hour, sometimes longer if there’s a traffic jam. I showed him understanding, suggesting we leave earlier or find alternative routes. But it wasn’t enough. “You don’t understand,” he grumbled, “I waste three hours a day commuting. This isn’t life.”

I tried to be empathetic. “Diego, what if we find a solution? Should we change cars or try carsharing?” But he just rejected it: “That doesn’t solve anything, Lucía. The best thing would be to live closer to my work.” Closer? Was I suggesting moving? I asked him directly, and he nodded: “Yes, it would be easier to rent something there.” I almost choked on my coffee. Rent? And my apartment? My home, for which I’ve been paying a mortgage for five years and which I’ve decorated with so much love? Give it all up because it’s not working for him?

I explained that, for me, this apartment isn’t just four walls. It was my first step toward independence, something I’m proud of, even though it’s small and not in the most elegant neighborhood. But Diego looked at me like I was a little girl and said, “Lucia, it’s just an apartment. We can rent it and move wherever is most convenient for me.” Convenient for him? And me? I can walk to work in twenty minutes. I love this neighborhood: the park where I walk, the café where I meet my friends, the neighbor who brings me pastries. Why should I give it all up?

The situation gets worse every day. Now Diego complains about everything: that the apartment is small, that the neighbors are noisy, that it “smells old.” Old? The building is thirty years old and I just renovated it! I’m starting to suspect the problem isn’t just the commute. Would it be different if we lived at his house? I asked him: “Diego, would you complain the same if we lived with your parents?” He hesitated, then mumbled: “It’s still far, but at least there’s more space.” More space? So my apartment isn’t enough for him?

I spoke to my mother for advice. He listened and said, “Lucia, marriage is a commitment. If things go wrong, find a compromise.” But which one? Rent my apartment and move to a place where it suits him best? Or stay here and put up with his complaints? I suggested another option: look for a job closer. He’s an engineer, there are job openings. But he laughed: “Are you crazy? I’ve been with this company for ten years, I won’t leave.” And I, on the other hand, should leave my home?

Now I feel trapped. Part of me wants to stand firm: this is my apartment, I have the right to live where I feel comfortable. But another part fears this will ruin our marriage. I love Diego, I don’t want to fight, but his complaints exasperate me. Sometimes I feel guilty, as if I’m the one making him suffer. But then I think: why should I sacrifice my own? He knew where we would live when he agreed. Why do I have to change everything now?

I gave myself until the end of the month to decide. Maybe we’ll rent something halfway between his work and mine. But the thought of seeing my apartment empty or with strangers in it breaks my heart. Or maybe Diego will reconsider and stop complaining. I don’t know. For now, I try not to explode when he brings up the traffic again. But one thing is clear: this is my home, and I don’t want to lose it. Not even for love. Or shouldn’t love force you to choose?