I have been married for six and a half years. My husband is almost 40 and I am in my 30s.
And all these years my husband literally worships his mother. Does everything she asks for. There are three other brothers in my husband’s family, all grown up, but my husband is the only one who helps. Say, what’s the big deal, right mom? Of course, there’s nothing wrong. But this mother literally lives with us, although we live apart. She knows absolutely everything, what I eat, how I sleep, how I work, and even more personal things.
My husband has not worked for the past three years, there was a serious illness, which we successfully overcame. Had a successful surgery last year. It would seem possible to go out and work for the good of the family. We have a small child, and I provide for him alone, my husband does not take part financially. My husband is at home all day, he gets up in the morning and goes straight to play. And he plays horrible games, where he kills and shows everything in the smallest detail. My son watches all this and of course he is afraid.
Attempts to talk usually ends with him insulting. The husband is supported by his parents (they are 70 years old). Mom completely, like a puppet directs her son. Right down to the fact that she watches what kind of underwear he wears. If she said she had to take her to the village to the cottage, her husband catches up and drives. If it’s business, the same story. If I ask, the answer is, “get up early and take the bus to the country.
The last thing that left me in shock. I asked him to gather the documents for the child allowance. My husband just ignored it, and instead he went back to help my mom, and she can’t find the right contact on the phone without him. And prying into the family of a grown forty-year-old son she can.
The story is rambling, but the gist is clear. I would like to appeal more to men. Why do you start a family and then flaunt it in front of your mother? And when my mother is gone, how to live without her? Sometimes you run out of patience, too.
