Tom decided I was a terrible housewife—after consulting his mum
Oliver and I got married just over a year ago. Before that, we’d dated for nearly three years, and I thought we knew every little thing about each other. Turns out, the real test of love isn’t moonlit confessions—it’s sharing a laundry basket. We’d lived apart before: me in Manchester, him with his parents in some sleepy Surrey village. I was dead against moving in together before marriage—if he loved me, he could wait, right? Oliver waited. But sadly, his patience had a strict expiry date.
The second we moved in together, romance went out the window. What stayed? Bills, vacuuming, and an endless stream of critiques. The worst part? Half of them came from his mother.
Oliver’s hot-tempered, stubborn, and—surprise!—stuck in the 1950s. To him, a woman shouldn’t just have a job; she should be some six-armed domestic goddess: whipping up roast dinners, scrubbing floors, ironing his shirts, all while grinning like she’s in a Persil advert.
I tried explaining we’re in the 21st century—that I, too, have deadlines, exhaustion, and the occasional flu. That transforming into Cinderella after eight hours at a desk isn’t on my CV. He didn’t care. To him, chores were “women’s work,” full stop.
For months, I bit my tongue. Told myself it was just adjustment pains. I cleaned (badly), cooked (sometimes), and ordered takeaway when I was too knackered. Then one evening, Oliver stomped in from work, sat at the kitchen table, and—without even looking up—said,
“Mum and I had a chat… and we agree you’re rubbish at this. You don’t even try. The flat’s a tip, and your cooking’s nowhere near as good as hers.”
I was gobsmacked. Not only was he unhappy—he’d *discussed* me with his mother, like I was a faulty appliance they were debating returning.
Never mind that I pay half the rent. That I work myself ragged and wouldn’t mind coming home to a clean flat and a warm casserole—*made for me*, for once.
He whinges that nothing’s “like Mum does it.” Well, no—his mum’s retired, with all day to polish doorknobs. I’m sprinting through life. But I *try*. Last night, I spent two hours making bloody bangers and mash, and he complained the gravy was “a bit thin.”
Funny how *his* chores never get done. The hallway bulb’s been out for weeks. The loo’s got a leak. But those are “trivial.” A dusty bookshelf, though? National emergency.
I finally snapped and offered a deal: I’d quit my job, become the perfect little housewife. Cook, clean, starch his shirts. But then *he’d* cover all the bills.
His response?
“Why should I bankroll you?”
Ah. So he wants perfection—for free. A wife who works, cleans, cooks, smiles, and thanks him for the *privilege* of sharing his Netflix password. Otherwise? Divorce. Apparently, he “doesn’t see another way.”
Well, I do. Love isn’t servitude. I’ll compromise—but I won’t erase myself. I’m not his maid, his personal chef, or a topic for mummy’s tea-time critique. I’m a person. And I deserve respect—not scolding from a man who still rings his mum to complain about the washing-up.
