**Diary Entry – 8th March**
I was well into my thirties when I finally decided to marry. I’d never rushed—no desperate leaps into the arms of just anyone. I wanted the real thing, something deep and deliberate, like in those classic films: mutual love, warmth, partnership. Truthfully, I’d been content on my own.
I had a respectable career, a steady income, and a passport filled with stamps from business trips—weekends spent with friends in clubs, on countryside hikes, or last-minute getaways. Everything was as it should be. Until the relentless nagging began: *“When will you settle down?” “Don’t you want to give us grandchildren?” “Soon it’ll be too late…”*
Even my friends, as if on cue, started drifting into marriage. Just a few years ago, we’d all championed independence, and now here they were, mashing potatoes and folding nappies. And I remained alone.
At work, there was Edward—polite, charming, decent-looking, a few years my senior. Never married, though. Odd, isn’t it? A man nearing forty with no past attachments. But he swore he hadn’t been avoiding commitment. Quite the opposite—he’d longed for a family, children, a cosy home. Claimed he just hadn’t met *“the one”* until now.
When he asked me to dinner again, I thought, *Why not?* We got on well, the attraction was there, he seemed dependable. So I said yes. A few months later, we married.
The wedding was small but heartfelt. And it was only *after* that I finally understood why no one had ever managed to tie Edward down.
The answer? His mother.
Or rather, his crippling attachment to her. This seemingly grown man was, in truth, a quintessential mummy’s boy.
At first, we lived in her flat in central London. She didn’t exactly give us breathing room. Every decision—from bedsheets to breakfast—required her approval. Every move, monitored. And Edward? He *obeyed*. He deferred. He feared upsetting her with so much as a word.
When I broached the subject of moving out, he hesitated, dodged, avoided. Only after months of persuasion did we take out a mortgage and relocate to a bright new flat.
But distance didn’t equal freedom.
Edward still lived by her decree. Weekends were reserved for her roasts. Every choice came with a phone call: *“Mum, what do you think?”* Even lightbulbs weren’t bought unless she vouched for the brand. Flowers for me? Only if she reminded him a wife ought to be spoiled.
At first, I ignored it—especially when our boys were small and I’d stepped back from work. I told myself he was trying, providing, and that his mother’s word was law to him.
But time passed. I returned to my job, my projects, my life. And with every passing day, I grew more exhausted by this man who couldn’t make a single decision on his own.
I wasn’t drained by work, but by the endless chorus of *“Mum says”*, *“Mum advises”*, *“Mum thinks…”*. She had become the unwanted third in our marriage.
Now, financially independent again, I could support myself and the children. And more often, I caught myself thinking: Edward wasn’t a husband. He was another child—just not an endearing one, but a stubborn, infantile man glued to his mother’s apron strings.
Now I stand at a crossroads. Do I stay for the children, pretending all’s well? Or do I reclaim my peace and leave?
Ladies who’ve been here—*what would you do*? Is there any fighting for a marriage where your husband’s heart belongs to another woman—even if that woman is his mother?
