My husband decided I was a terrible homemaker—after consulting his mum.
Oliver and I married just over a year ago. Before that, we’d been together nearly three years, and it seemed we knew every little thing about each other. But the real test? Not moonlit confessions, but sharing a home. Before, we lived apart—me in Manchester, him with his parents in a Surrey village. I refused to move in before marriage. If someone truly loves you, I thought, they’ll wait. Oliver waited. Sadly, his patience didn’t stretch much further.
The moment we started living together, the romance vanished. What remained were bills, chores, and endless complaints. The worst part? They didn’t just come from him, but from his mother too.
Oliver was hot-tempered, stubborn, and—as it turned out—rather old-fashioned. To him, a woman shouldn’t just work; she should be some multi-armed goddess, juggling Sunday roasts, spotless floors, crisply ironed shirts, all while grinning like a toothpaste ad.
I tried explaining. We’re in the 21st century. I have a job, exhaustion, bad days. I can’t transform into a housemaid after eight hours at my desk. He didn’t listen. To him, cleaning was a woman’s duty. So was the kitchen.
For months, I bit my tongue. Endured it, told myself this was just the settling-in period. I cleaned as best I could, cooked, sometimes ordered takeaway when time ran short. Then one evening, Oliver stormed in from work, black as thunder, slouched at the table, and without even looking at me, said:
“Mum and I had a talk… and we agree. You’re not much of a homemaker. You don’t put in the effort. The place needs tidying more often, proper meals. Like she does.”
I froze. Not just his disapproval—he’d *consulted* her. Discussed me, like some faulty appliance, and reached a verdict. I wasn’t measuring up. Falling short. Failing.
Never mind that I paid half the mortgage. That I worked myself ragged and longed to come home to a clean flat, where no one nagged but instead waited with a warm dinner—not made *by* me, but *for* me.
He whinged that nothing I did was “like Mum’s.” Well, of course not. His mum had a pension, empty days, no deadlines or Zoom calls. I existed in permanent overtime. Still, I tried. Yesterday, I spent two hours at the stove, only for him to mutter the cutlets’ crust “wasn’t right.”
Funny how *his* duties went ignored—the hallway bulb had been dead for weeks, the loo was leaking. But those were “trifles.” A bit of dust, though? Catastrophe.
Once, I snapped. Offered a compromise: I’d quit my job, become the perfect housewife. Cook, scrub, press his shirts. But he’d cover *all* expenses.
His response?
“Why should I pay your way for nothing?”
So he wanted the ideal wife—no investment required. She must work, clean, cook, smile, and grovel for the privilege of living with him. Otherwise? Divorce. The only solution he’d entertain.
And me? I saw no point in continuing. Love isn’t servitude. I’ll compromise—not self-destruct. I’m not his skivvy, his unpaid chef, certainly not some topic for mother-son debate. I’m a woman. And I deserve respect. Not scolding from a husband who never grew up.
