Stanley remained a mummy’s boy—even as a grown man.
When I finally decided to marry, I was already past thirty-five. I hadn’t rushed—I didn’t want to throw myself at the first man who came along. I longed for something real, something deep, something thoughtful, like in the best films: mutual love, warmth, partnership. And truthfully, I was quite comfortable on my own.
I had a respectable job, a decent income, and a lifetime of travels behind me thanks to work assignments. Every weekend, I spent time with my girlfriends—dancing in clubs, escaping to the countryside, or taking spontaneous trips abroad. Everything was in its place. Until my family started nagging: “When will you 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, one by one, began tying the knot. Only a few years earlier, we’d all dreamed of freedom and independence—now they were mashing potatoes and scrubbing nappies, while I remained alone.
At work, my colleague Stanley had shown interest in me for some time. Polite, well-mannered, pleasant-looking, a few years my senior. Never married, though. And that—that was what unsettled me. A man nearing forty, still on his own—wasn’t that odd?
But Stanley swore he hadn’t been avoiding marriage. On the contrary—he’d always wanted a family, children, a cosy home. Said he just hadn’t met “the one” until now.
When he invited me to a café yet again, I thought—why not? All the pieces fit—we got along, conversation was easy, 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 woman before me had ever managed to “tame” Stanley.
The answer? His mother.
More specifically—his crippling attachment to her. This man, who appeared mature on the surface, was in truth the very picture of a mummy’s boy.
At first, we lived in her flat in central London. She, to put it mildly, suffocated us. No decision was made without her input—from the colour of our bedsheets to what I cooked for breakfast. Every step was watched. And Stanley? He agreed. He obeyed. He cringed at the thought of upsetting her, even with a word.
When I tried to discuss the idea of our own place, he hesitated, fell silent, changed the subject. Only after endless persuasion did we take out a mortgage and move into a bright new flat.
But alas, distance didn’t mean freedom.
Stanley still lived by his mother’s rules. Weekends were reserved for lunch at hers. Every choice he made was prefaced with a call: “Mum, what do you think…?” Even lightbulbs were only purchased if she deemed them the right sort. The only flowers I ever received were the ones she reminded him to bring.
At first, I turned a blind eye. Especially when our boys were small, and I’d taken leave from work. I told myself: he tries, he provides, his mother is his guiding star.
But time passed. I returned to work, to my usual rhythm, to my own ambitions. And the weight of it all grew heavier—this man beside me, incapable of making a single choice on his own.
I tired not from work but from the endless refrain: “Mum says…”, “Mum advises…”, “Mum thinks…” She had become an intruder in our marriage.
I was financially independent again, able to support myself and the children. And more and more, I caught myself thinking—Stanley wasn’t a husband. He was just another child. Not an innocent little boy, but a stubborn, infantile man, still clinging to his mother’s apron strings.
Now, I stand at a crossroads. Do I keep the family together for the children’s sake, pretending all is well? Or do I choose my own peace and walk away?
Ladies who’ve been here—tell me. What did you choose? Is it worth fighting for a marriage where one partner has long since given their heart to another woman—even if that woman is his own mother?
