Edward remained a mama’s boy—even as a grown man.
When I finally decided to marry, I was well past thirty-five. I hadn’t rushed into it—I’d no desire to throw myself at the first man who came along. I wanted something real, something deep, the kind of love you see in the best films: mutual, warm, a true partnership. And truthfully, I was content on my own.
I had a respectable career, a steady income, and a life enriched by travels across dozens of countries, thanks to work assignments. Weekends were spent with friends—clubbing, rambling through the countryside, or vanishing on impromptu trips. Everything was in its place. Until my family began their endless chorus: “When will you settle down?” “Don’t you want to give us grandchildren?” “Time’s running out, you know…”
As if by some cruel twist, my friends, too, began marrying one after another. Only a few years prior, we’d all championed freedom and independence—now here they were, stirring mashed potatoes and scrubbing nappies. And I was left alone.
At work, a colleague—Edward—had shown interest in me for some time. Polite, chivalrous, pleasant-looking, a few years my senior. Yet he’d never been married. And that, precisely, was what unsettled me. A man nearing forty, still single—wasn’t that odd?
But Edward swore he hadn’t avoided marriage. Quite the opposite—he’d long dreamed of a family, children, a cosy home. He simply hadn’t met “the one,” he claimed.
When he invited me to a café yet again, I thought, *Why not?* It seemed to fit: there was fondness, easy conversation, reliability. So I said yes. A few months later, we wed.
The ceremony was modest but heartfelt. And it was only then that I understood why no woman had ever managed to “tame” Edward.
The answer? His mother.
Or rather, his crippling attachment to her. This supposedly grown man was, in truth, a textbook mama’s boy.
At first, we lived in her flat in central Brighton. She, to put it mildly, suffocated us. No decision was made without her approval—from bedsheet colours to what I served for breakfast. Every step, scrutinised. And Edward? He complied. He obeyed. He feared offending her with even a word.
When I tried discussing separate living arrangements, he hedged, fell silent, changed the subject. Only after relentless persuasion did we secure a mortgage and move into a bright new flat.
Yet distance brought no freedom.
Edward still lived by his mother’s dictates. Weekends meant lunch at hers. Every move required a call: “Mum, what do you think…?” He bought lightbulbs only if she deemed them good. Even the flowers he brought me came only when she reminded him a wife ought to be spoiled.
At first, I turned a blind eye. Especially when our sons were small, and I’d paused my career. I told myself: *He works hard, provides. His mother is his compass.*
But time passed. I returned to work, to my projects, to my rhythm. And the weight of it grew unbearable—living alongside a man who couldn’t make the smallest choice alone.
It wasn’t work that exhausted me, but the endless scripts: “Mum says…,” “Mum advises…,” “Mum believes…” She had become the third wheel in our marriage.
I regained my financial independence. I could support myself and the children. And more often, I caught myself thinking: Edward wasn’t a husband. He was another child—only not an endearing toddler, but a stubborn, infantile man, tethered to his mother’s apron strings.
Now I stand at a crossroads. Do I keep up appearances for the children’s sake? Or do I choose peace, choose myself, and walk away?
Ladies who’ve faced this—what did you do? Is it worth fighting for a marriage where one partner long ago gave his heart to another woman—even if that woman is his mother?
