I married a mama’s boy. Now, everything in this house must be “just like Mum’s”—and I can’t take it anymore!
I still don’t understand how I let this happen. How did I miss the fact that behind his respectable appearance and 38 years of age was just another dependent mummy’s boy? On the surface, he was a grown man—confident, even charismatic. Divorced, lived apart from his mother, rented out his own flat. I thought he was mature. Turns out, it was all a façade.
I’d already made one mistake—my first marriage fell apart because my husband was hopelessly immature, glued to his computer all day, refusing to work. After him, I swore I’d only date older men. But alas, age is no guarantee of maturity.
I met my current husband through… his mother. At the time, I was working temporarily in a shop, and she was a regular customer—sweet, kind, always chatting away. She’d say, “I wish my son could find someone like you.” Eventually, her son started dropping by, courting me like it was straight out of a manual. I fell for it—for the care, the stability, the reliability. We married, and I moved into his old flat.
The first shock was the house itself. Inside, it was like stepping back into the 1970s—floral wallpaper, china cabinets, furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum. Tentatively, I suggested, “Maybe we could update things? Even just a fresh coat of paint?” His response? “Absolutely not. Mum picked all this out. Why would we change it?” Even taking down the old curtains was a battle. He struggled as if I was tearing his mother’s heart out.
Then came the rest. The “good” dishes couldn’t be used because “they don’t make them like this anymore.” His words were straight out of his mother’s mouth. And of course, she started visiting more often. Of course, he invited her.
The moment she walked in, the lectures began: “Why aren’t you using a mop instead of that modern vacuum? Why did you take the drapes down?” And the inevitable: “Everything in this house should be just like mine—that’s what’s best for my son.” Then came the cooking critiques. “You’re making roast beef wrong! My son only likes it crispy and dripping with fat.” Once, I snapped: “And when he ends up with heart problems, will you be the one shuttling him to hospital appointments? That’s not food—that’s a health hazard!”
When I tried replacing the furniture, my mother-in-law sniffed, “You came into this house with nothing!” What, was I supposed to bring my parents’ old sideboard? I work too, you know. Maybe I’m just a shop assistant now, but I’m working my way up. Besides, my husband earns well—why don’t I get a say in my own home?
And him? He’s becoming more like her every day. Recently, he actually said, “Maybe you should start watching soaps so you can chat with Mum?” Unbelievable. I don’t even watch TV, and yet I see her every single day—like clockwork. She critiques how I iron, how I polish the floors, even how I close the cupboards.
It’s not that she’s cruel or horrible. She’s just… too much. Too overbearing, too controlling. The worst part? My husband sees nothing wrong with this. To him, it’s normal.
But I don’t want this life. I don’t want to become a carbon copy of his mother. I want my own home, my own rules.
Yes, the flat isn’t mine. No, I didn’t pay the mortgage. But I’ve poured my soul into this place. I refuse to turn my life into a shrine to outdated ideals, dictated by my mother-in-law.
I want children. But not like this. I won’t raise a child under the shadow of a controlling mother—like my husband was. He’s not a boy anymore. It’s time he learned: when you marry, you start your own life. If he won’t? Then it might be time for me to walk away. Before it’s too late.
