Long ago, I often caught myself wondering how I ever allowed it—how I could have married a man who, even at thirty, still lived in his mother’s shadow? His name was William, and on the surface, he seemed every bit the serious, grown man. But in truth, he was a mother’s boy through and through, unable to take a single step without her blessing.
We met through—who else? His mother! At the time, I worked as a shopgirl, and an older woman began frequenting our store. She’d praise me endlessly, saying I was like family. Then one day, she brought her son along. “Look, William,” she said, “this one’s pure gold!” And he took the bait. Courtship followed, then a wedding.
His mother gave us the flat she’d lived in, moving in with her elderly beau instead. “Live here, save for your own place,” she told us. “I want grandchildren!” Kind words, but they came with strings. Soon, she was back in our lives—bearing cleaning rags, pots, and her own way of doing things.
Every Monday felt like déjà vu. I’d spend the weekend scrubbing the flat spotless, washing, cooking. Then I’d come home to find everything rewashed, re-ironed, rearranged. A note on the table read: “Made stew, sorted the wardrobe, mopped the floors, changed the linens. Kisses.” Polite, yet it left my hands trembling. Was this my home—or hers?
I told William I couldn’t bear it. He brushed me off. “She means well! Does everything out of love!” As if I should be grateful for fewer chores. But her “help” stripped me of my role as mistress of my own home. She even washed my underthings—rooted through drawers, shifted my belongings. Privacy? A laughable notion.
The bitter irony? Her own home was nothing like this. We visited once: tidy, yes, but not sterile. Ours, though? Every inch measured, as if ruled. A stranger in my house, yet I couldn’t speak a word against her. “It’s her flat,” my own mother reminded me. “Bear it till you buy your own.”
But how? Day after day, I felt pushed aside, as though my place meant nothing. I won’t say my mother-in-law was wicked—just obsessed with control. To her, we weren’t a family, but wayward children needing direction.
And William? He refused to set boundaries. Content, he called us “fortunate.” Meanwhile, I felt like an intruder. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see my anguish.
Then came her declaration: “I want grandchildren. Once they arrive, I’ll visit more—help with the baby.” It chilled me. She wouldn’t “help.” She’d move in—dictate nap times, meals, rules. Already, I was suffocating. With a child? I’d snap entirely.
Recently, I gave William an ultimatum: either he speaks to his mother, or I will. Flat or not, respect was due. I wasn’t some trinket to be shifted about. I was his wife. A woman. Entitled to order in my own home—even if it wasn’t yet mine.
