Simon never really grew up—even as a grown man.
When I finally decided to marry, I was already in my mid-thirties. I hadn’t rushed into anything—no sense throwing myself at the first man who came along. I wanted something real, deep, and intentional, like in those romantic films: mutual respect, warmth, partnership. And truthfully, I was perfectly happy on my own.
I had a successful career, a comfortable income, and dozens of countries stamped in my passport thanks to work trips. Weekends were spent with my girlfriends—nights out, countryside hikes, impromptu getaways. Everything was in its place. Until family started nagging: “When are you going to settle down?” “Don’t you want to give us grandchildren?” “You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
And, as luck would have it, my friends began marrying off one by one. Just a few years ago, we were all celebrating freedom and independence—now they were boiling potatoes and washing nappies. And there I was, left behind.
At work, a colleague—Simon—had been showing interest for ages. Polite, chivalrous, good-looking, a bit older than me. Never married, though. And that… well, that set off alarms. A man nearing forty, still single—wasn’t that odd?
But Simon swore he wasn’t avoiding marriage. On the contrary, he’d always wanted a family, kids, a cosy home. Just hadn’t met “the one,” he said.
When he asked me out to dinner again, I thought: why not? We got along, enjoyed each other’s company, and he seemed dependable. So I said yes. A few months later, we tied the knot.
The wedding was simple but heartfelt. And that’s when I finally realised why no woman had ever “claimed” Simon before.
The answer? His mother.
More precisely, his crippling dependence on her. This seemingly grown man was, in reality, a full-blown mummy’s boy.
At first, we lived in her flat in central Manchester. She never gave us a moment’s peace—every decision, from bedsheet colours to what I cooked for breakfast, had to meet her approval. Every move was monitored. And Simon? He obeyed. He deferred. He was terrified of upsetting her, even in conversation.
When I tried to discuss finding our own place, he’d hem and haw, change the subject. Only after endless persuasion did we take out a mortgage and move to a bright, new flat.
But distance made no difference.
Simon still lived by his mother’s rules. Weekends at hers for Sunday roast. Every decision followed a call: “Mum, what do you think?” He wouldn’t even buy lightbulbs unless she approved. Even the flowers he brought me only happened when she reminded him to “keep your wife happy.”
At first, I let it slide—especially when our boys were small and I wasn’t working. He was the breadwinner, after all, and his mother was his guiding star.
But time passed. I returned to work, to my projects, to my own rhythm. And the weight of his helplessness grew heavier—this man who couldn’t make a single choice on his own.
I wasn’t exhausted by my job but by the endless chorus of “Mum says,” “Mum thinks,” “Mum advises.” She had become our unwanted third wheel.
I had my own money again. I could support myself and the children. And more and more, I saw Simon not as a husband but as another child—stubborn, infantile, forever tied to his mother’s apron strings.
Now, I’m at a crossroads. Do I stay for the kids, pretending everything’s fine? Or do I walk away, for my own sanity?
Ladies who’ve been there—tell me. What did you choose? Is it worth fighting for a marriage where one spouse has already given his heart to another woman—even if that woman is his mother?
