Henry 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—no settling for the first man who glanced my way. I wanted something real, something deep, the kind of love you see in films: mutual, warm, a partnership. And truthfully, I was comfortable on my own.
I had a prestigious job, a decent salary, and a lifetime of travel under my belt thanks to work trips. Weekends were spent with my girlfriends—clubbing, hiking, spontaneous getaways. Everything was in its place. Until the nagging began: *When will you settle down? Won’t you give us grandchildren? Time’s running out…*
Even my friends, as if by some cruel joke, started dropping like flies into marriage. Just a few years ago, we’d toasted to freedom and independence—now they were pureeing baby food and folding nappies. And there I was, alone.
At work, Henry had shown interest for ages—polite, charming, pleasant-looking, a bit older than me. Never married, though. And that’s what set alarms ringing. A man nearing forty, still single—wasn’t that strange?
But Henry swore he hadn’t avoided marriage. Quite the opposite—he’d always dreamed of a family, children, a cosy home. Just hadn’t met *the one*, he claimed.
When he asked me out for coffee again, I thought—why not? Everything lined up—mutual affection, easy conversation, reliability. 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 “claimed” Henry before.
The answer? His mother.
Or rather, his crippling attachment to her. This grown man, seemingly independent, was mummy’s boy through and through.
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 bedsheet colours to breakfast choices. Every step, monitored. And Henry? He obeyed. He deferred. He feared upsetting her with even a word.
When I tried discussing a place of our own, he’d falter, go silent, change the subject. Only after endless persuasion did we get a mortgage and move into a bright new flat.
But distance didn’t mean freedom.
Henry still lived by his mother’s rules. Weekends—lunch at hers. Every move prefaced with a call: *Mum, what do you think?* Even lightbulbs were only bought if she approved. Flowers for me? Only if she reminded him a wife should be spoiled.
At first, I ignored it. Especially when our sons were small and I’d taken time off work. I told myself—he’s trying, providing, and his mother’s his compass.
But time passed. I returned to work, to my projects, my rhythm. And the weight of it grew heavier—this man who couldn’t make a single choice alone.
I wasn’t tired from work but from the endless chorus: *Mum says, Mum advises, Mum thinks…* She’d become the third wheel in our marriage.
I was financially independent again. Able to care for myself and the children. And more and more, I saw Henry not as a husband but as another child—not an innocent toddler, but a stubborn, infantile man glued to his mother’s apron strings.
Now I stand at a crossroads. Do I keep the family together for the children, pretend all’s well? Or do I save myself, my peace, and walk away?
Ladies who’ve been here—what did you choose? Is it worth fighting for a marriage where one spouse’s heart belongs to another woman—even if it’s his mother?
