Tom decided I was a terrible housewife—after consulting his mum.
Oliver and I got married just over a year ago. Before that, we dated for nearly three years, and I thought we knew everything about each other. But it turns out the real test isn’t moonlit confessions—it’s sharing a home. Before, we lived apart: me in Manchester, him with his parents in the suburbs. I was adamant about not moving in together before marriage. If someone truly loved me, I believed they’d wait. Oliver waited. But sadly, his patience didn’t last much longer.
Once we started living together, the romance vanished. All that remained were bills, chores, and endless complaints. The worst part? They didn’t just come from Oliver—his mum chimed in too.
Oliver’s quick-tempered, stubborn, and, as it turns out, quite old-fashioned. To him, a woman shouldn’t just work—she should be some six-armed goddess: roast a Sunday dinner, scrub the floors, iron his shirts, and still smile like she’s in a detergent advert.
I tried explaining we live in the 21st century—that I have a job, exhaustion, and bad days too. I can’t magically turn into a maid after eight hours at my desk. He wouldn’t listen. To him, cleaning was a woman’s job, just like cooking.
For months, I bit my tongue. I endured, hoping this was just the adjustment phase. I cleaned as best I could, cooked meals, sometimes ordered takeaway when I was swamped. Then one evening, Oliver came home from work, stormed into the kitchen, and without even looking at me, said:
“Mum and I had a chat… and we agree you’re rubbish at housekeeping. You don’t put in the effort. The place needs cleaning more often, and your cooking isn’t up to scratch. Not like hers.”
I was stunned. Not only was he unhappy—he’d discussed me with his mum, and together, they’d decided I wasn’t good enough. Didn’t measure up. Failed.
Never mind that I contribute half our expenses. That I’m run ragged at work and would love to come home to a tidy flat where I’m not nagged—maybe even to a warm meal waiting for *me* for once?
He whines that nothing’s “like Mum does it.” Of course it isn’t. His mum’s retired, has free time, no deadlines or Zoom calls. I’m constantly racing the clock. But I *try*. Yesterday, I spent two hours cooking, and he complained the roast potatoes “weren’t crispy enough.”
Funny how he’s in no rush to handle his own responsibilities. The hallway bulb’s been out for three weeks. The toilet’s leaking—no big deal. But dust on the shelf? A national emergency.
Once, I snapped and offered a compromise: I’d quit my job and become the perfect housewife. Cook, clean, press his shirts. But then he’d have to cover *all* the bills.
His response?
“Why should I foot the bill for you to sit at home?”
So, he wants a flawless wife—without lifting a finger himself. One who works, cleans, cooks, smiles, and thanks him for the privilege of sharing his space. And if not? Divorce. Apparently, he “doesn’t see another way.”
Well, I don’t see a reason to stay. Love isn’t slavery. I’ll compromise—but I won’t erase myself. I’m not his maid, his unpaid chef, or a topic for his mother’s critique. I’m a woman. And I deserve respect—not scolding from a husband who still clings to his mum’s apron strings.
