James decided I was a terrible housewife—after consulting his mum.
Oliver and I got married just over a year ago. Before that, we’d been together for nearly three years, and I thought we knew each other inside out. Turns out, the real test of love isn’t whispered sweet nothings under the stars—it’s sharing a postcode. We’d lived separately before: me in Manchester, him with his parents in the suburbs. I was dead against moving in before marriage. If he loved me, I figured, he could wait. And he did. Sadly, his patience had an expiry date.
The moment we started sharing a kettle, the romance evaporated. What remained? Bills, hoovering, and an endless stream of critiques. The worst part? They weren’t just from Oliver—oh no—his mum weighed in too.
Oliver’s fiery, stubborn, and—surprise—stuck in the 1950s. For him, a woman shouldn’t just work; she should be a domestic superhero—whipping up roast dinners, scrubbing floors, ironing his shirts, all while grinning like a toothpaste advert.
I tried explaining that we live in the 21st century, that I have a job, exhaustion, and the odd migraine. I can’t morph into a maid after eight hours at a desk. He didn’t hear it. To him, cleaning was women’s work, full stop.
The first few months, I bit my tongue. Thought it was just the ‘adjustment period’. I cleaned as best I could, cooked, even ordered takeaways when time ran short. Then one evening, Oliver stomped in from work, face like a slapped custard, sat at the kitchen table, and without so much as eye contact, declared:
“Mum and I have been talking… and we’ve decided you’re not much of a housewife. You don’t put in the effort. You should clean more, cook properly. Like she does.”
I was gobsmacked. Not only was he dissatisfied—he’d consulted his mum, dissected my shortcomings over tea, and reached a verdict. I wasn’t cutting it. Falling short. Failing.
Never mind that I pay half the bills. That I work myself ragged and would kill to come home to a clean flat where supper’s ready—for me, not by me.
He moans nothing’s “like Mum does it.” Well, obviously. His mum’s retired, with all day to polish the cutlery and no Zoom meetings. I’m sprinting through life like I’m on *The Crystal Maze*. But I try. Yesterday, I spent two hours cooking—only for him to sniff, “The gravy’s not as thick as Mum’s.”
Funny how he’s in no rush to tick *his* chores off. The hallway bulb’s been blown for three weeks. The loo’s been leaking—crickets. But dust on the mantelpiece? National emergency.
I finally cracked and offered a compromise: I’d quit my job, become the perfect housewife. Cook, clean, starch his socks. But he’d have to cover all expenses.
His reply? “Why should I foot the bill for you to sit around?”
So, he wants a Stepford wife—on a budget. Work, clean, cook, beam with gratitude for the privilege of his company. Or else? Divorce. Apparently, there’s no other option.
Well, I don’t see the point in this marriage anymore. Love shouldn’t feel like indentured servitude. I’ll compromise—but not self-destruct. I’m not his skivvy, his unpaid chef, or a topic for mother-son gossip. I’m a woman. And I deserve respect—not scolding from a man who still runs to Mummy.
