**Diary Entry**
“Why wont you open the door?”
“I dont want to. Guests should call ahead, and they certainly shouldnt go rummaging through drawers, fridges, and wardrobes.”
“What do you mean, you wont? Thats my *mother*! Shes come to see *me*!”
“Well, you go greet her, then. But not in *my* house.”
Funny how Sophie always got on better with my mum.
“You know, if I started listing all the ways my ex was better than you, wed both be embarrassed.”
“Though Im not sure about myself,” interrupted Emily nervously, scrubbing at the kitchen table. “If you and Sophie were so perfect together, whyd you break up?”
Victor turned away, sulking, and glared out the window.
“You already know the story.”
“I do. So stop bringing up your precious Sophie,” Emily snapped. “Unless you want me to be your next ex.”
She was serious.
Emily had met Victor nearly a year ago at a mutual friends gathering. She even knew Sophienot well, but enough. Sophie had introduced Victor that night, then vanished from the radar a few months later.
One evening, drunk and maudlin, Victor confessed hed caught Sophie cheating. Even shed a tear.
At the time, Emily found it endearinga man unafraid of his emotions, who valued love. Something inside her *clicked*. She wanted to comfort him.
Looking back, she realised that “something” was maternal instinct, not romance. But it was enough to start a relationship.
At first, it was lovely. Hed meet her after work, drive her home, send sweet texts, fuss over whether she was dressed warmly. She felt cherished.
Then Sophie messaged her.
“Hey. Heard youre seeing Victor. Not my business, but be careful. He and his mum are a package deal.”
Emily noted it but brushed it off. Love overcame worse obstacles. Just because things went wrong with one woman didnt mean history would repeat.
“Thanks for the warning,” she replied, shutting the conversation down. It felt disloyal to Victor.
Victor, however, had no such loyalty to *her* comfort.
When his mother, Margaret, first showed up unannounced, Emily stayed calm. Maybe they just didnt realise how intrusive it was. Maybe Margaret was just worried about her son.
She sent Victor to greet his mum, threw on clothes, tied her hair up messily, and stumbled outpuffy-eyed and half-asleepto meet her potential mother-in-law.
Margaret was already inspecting the living room drawers.
“Ah, everythings a jumble,” she said with a pitying smile. “Soon youll have mismatched socks. Emily, after breakfast, Ill teach you to fold clothes properlyno wrinkles, no losses.”
Not a *hello*. Emily was floored. A stranger rifling through her underwear in *her* home? Rude. But retaliating seemed wrong, so she bit her tongue.
“Oh, love, look at those dark circles!” Margaret tutted. “You need cucumber masks. Better yet, get your kidneys checked. My friend Margaret had the same”
Emily nodded, smiling blankly, pretending interest in strangers ailments while longing to crawl back into bed. It was *8 AM* on a *Saturday*. Shed stayed up late, planning to sleep in.
Margaret stayed until evening, critiquing Emilys flower care, bathroom scrubbing, and cutlery polishinghands-on demonstrations included. By sunset, Emily felt wrung out.
Victor? Didnt lift a finger. Not a hint to his mother that they wanted privacy.
“Is your mum always this… *enthusiastic*?” Emily asked cautiously that night.
She loved family, but boundaries mattered.
“Yeah. Why? She just wants to bond,” Victor shrugged. “Sophie and I lived with her before. Lively household. Now shes lonely.”
“Please tell me we wont be a trio.”
“Whats your problem with my mum?” Victor bristled. “*Sophie* got on with her.”
Emily stayed silent. Sophie was eight years younger, a people-pleaser. Of *course* shed memorised Margarets friends names, medical histories, and ironed sheets just so.
Emily hadnt signed up for that. Life had taught her: the fewer outsiders meddling in a relationship, the better. Victor disagreed.
“Mums sociable. Gets on with everyone.”
*”Not everyone wants her to,”* Emily nearly said.
It got worse. Margaret returned the next morning*early*and audited the fridge.
“Chicken eggs? I only cooked Victor quail eggs. Better for men.” She sniffed. “Shelves could be cleaner. You *eat* off these, Emily.”
*”Not directly off the shelves,”* Emily thought.
“Ill clean them later,” she said. “We were planning to rest today. Its the *weekend*.”
Victor, of course, was still asleep.
“*Exactly*! Weekends are for cooking and cleaning!” Margaret declared. “Fetch the sponge. Next weekend, Ill teach you Victors favourite meat pies. Youll love them!”
Emily froze. Crossed her arms. She *refused* to take orders in her own home.
“Margaret, maybe text before visiting? So I can plan around it.”
“*Text*? I cant visit my own son?”
“Of course you can. But he lives with me now. Courtesy goes both ways.”
“*Sophie* never minded,” Margaret muttered.
“Well, *my* exs mum never turned up at dawn. She *did* bring cherry pies. Delicious. Want the recipe?”
Margarets face darkened. Wrinkles deepened. Fury flashed in her eyes.
“Emily, think carefully. The nightingale doesnt outsing the lark.”
She left, but the tension lingered. Victor didnt listen. Margaret treated their home as hers. And Sophies ghost haunted every corner.
“Sophies cabbage rolls were better. Her mums recipe,” Victor remarked once at dinner.
“Get her to teach you, then,” Emily snapped.
She suspected Margaret would poison Victor against her but refused to engage. She just wanted the topic *gone*.
A quiet month passed. Then the cycle repeated. A doorbell woke Emily. This time, she *didnt* answer.
Rude? Maybe. But was barging in unannounced after *clear* hints any better?
Five minutes later, Victor stormed outgroggy, irritated, furious.
“Why wont you open the door?”
“I dont want to. Guests should call ahead. And *not* rifle through my things.”
“*My mother* is here for *me*!”
“Then *you* greet her. Not in *my* house.”
The row that followed probably woke the neighbours. Victor accused Emily of rejecting him by rejecting his mum. Margaret screamed through the door, rang incessantly.
Finally, Emily issued an ultimatum.
“Enough! Either you explain the word *guest* to your mum and send her home, or were done.”
Victor chose the latter.
Emily wasnt heartbroken. Theyd never even married. Bullet dodged. A man shackled to his exs memory *and* his mother? No thanks.
Months later, gossip reached her: Victor had a new girlfriend. A mutual friend spilled the details.
“She moved in with him and his mum. Already wants out. Asked to meet you.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently, according to Margaret, youre *perfect*. Pretty, strong-willed, a great cook.”
“*Margaret* said that? About *me*?”
“Seems she only likes the ones who escape Victor.”
From then on, Emily listened more carefully to rumours. She kept her wits but stopped dismissing whispers.
And she grew *very* wary of men who waxed poetic about exesor were umbilically tied to their mothers.
Life with a “mummys boy” was doomed. Maybe family *should* come firstbut not at the expense of sanity.
Lesson learned.
