Sometimes I catch my own reflection and wonder—how did I ever marry a man who, at thirty years old, still lives in his mother’s shadow? His name was Oliver, and on the surface, he seemed mature, responsible—the picture of independence. In reality? A mummy’s boy through and through. Couldn’t so much as choose a tie without her approval.
We met through—who else?—his mother. I was working as a shop assistant when this older woman frequented the store, showering me with praise. “You’re like family,” she’d say, until one day she dragged her son in. “Ollie, look at this one—she’s a gem!” And he fell for it. Flowers, dinners, all the trappings. Then came the wedding.
His mother offered us her flat—she’d moved in with an elderly beau—with a smile. “Save for your own place,” she said. “And give me grandchildren!” Kind words, but strings attached. Within weeks, she was back in our lives… with her mop, her Tupperware, and her bloody rulebook.
Every Monday, déjà vu. I’d scrub the flat spotless over the weekend, only to come home and find it *re-scrubbed*. A note on the counter: *Made shepherd’s pie, sorted your knickers, mopped the floors. Kisses.* Polite as poison. Was this my home or hers?
I told Oliver I couldn’t take it. He shrugged. “She means well! It’s her way of loving us.” As if I should be *grateful* for her rifling through my lingerie drawer, stripping me of any semblance of privacy. At *her* place? Perfectly tidy, but lived-in. Ours? A bloody showroom. A stranger rearranging my life, and I couldn’t say a word—because, as Mum so helpfully reminded me, “It’s *her* flat. Play nice till you buy your own.”
But how do you play nice when every day chips away at you? I’m not saying she’s wicked. She just *needs* control, sees us not as a family but as children to micromanage. And Oliver? Refuses to draw the line. “We’ve got it good,” he says. Meanwhile, I’m a guest in my own marriage. He doesn’t see it. Or won’t.
When she drops hints—”Once the baby comes, I’ll be round more, help with the nappies!”—my blood runs cold. She won’t *help*. She’ll move in. Dictate nap times, purees, the lot. I’m suffocating now; by then, I’ll snap.
Last week, I gave him an ultimatum: either he sets boundaries, or I will. I don’t care whose name is on the lease. She gave us this flat—that doesn’t make her queen of it. I’m not a knick-knack to be dusted and rearranged. I’m his *wife*, and I’ll be damned if I spend another year begging for the right to own my own life.
