James had decided I was a terrible housewife—after consulting his mother.
Oliver and I had been married just over a year. Before that, we’d dated for nearly three, and I thought we knew everything about each other. But the real test wasn’t moonlit confessions—it was sharing a life. We’d lived separately before: me in Manchester, him with his parents in the outskirts. I’d refused to move in together before marriage, believing if he loved me, he’d wait. Oliver waited. But patience, it turned out, wasn’t his strong suit.
Once we started living together, the romance vanished. What remained were bills, chores, and endless criticism. And the worst of it didn’t just come from my husband—but from his mother.
Oliver was hot-tempered, stubborn, and, as I soon learned, painfully old-fashioned. To him, a woman wasn’t just supposed to work—she was meant to be a modern-day goddess: cooking Sunday roasts, scrubbing floors, ironing shirts, all while smiling like something out of a bloody commercial.
I tried explaining we lived in the 21st century—that I had a job, exhaustion, bad days. I couldn’t morph into a housemaid after eight hours at my desk. He didn’t listen. To him, cleaning was a woman’s duty, full stop.
At first, I bit my tongue. I endured, hoping this was just an adjustment period. I cleaned as best I could, cooked meals, ordered takeaway when stretched thin. But one evening, Oliver stormed in, dark as thunder, dropped into a kitchen chair, and without even looking at me, said:
“Mother and I had a chat… and we’ve decided you’re not much of a homemaker. You don’t try. You should clean more, cook properly. Like she does.”
I was stunned. It wasn’t just his dissatisfaction—he’d gone to his mother, discussed me like a faulty appliance, and together, they’d delivered their verdict. I wasn’t good enough. Didn’t measure up.
Never mind that I covered half our expenses. That I worked myself ragged and longed to come home to a clean flat where I wasn’t scolded but welcomed—maybe even with dinner someone else had made.
He whinged that nothing was “the way Mum does it.” Of course not. His mother was retired, with all day free, no deadlines or Zoom calls. I was sprinting through life. Still, I tried. Yesterday, I spent two hours at the stove, only for him to complain the roast potatoes “weren’t crisp enough.”
Funny how he never rushed to fix his so-called responsibilities—the hallway bulb had been dead for weeks, the toilet still leaked. But those were “trivial.” A speck of dust? A bloody catastrophe.
I finally snapped and offered a compromise: I’d quit my job, become the perfect housewife. Cook, clean, polish his shoes. But then he’d have to cover all the bills.
His reply? “Why the hell should I pay for everything?”
So he wanted perfection—without effort. A wife who worked, cleaned, cooked, smiled, and thanked him for the privilege. Otherwise? Divorce. Apparently, he saw no other way.
Well, neither did I. 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 mother-and-son debates. I’m a woman. And I deserve respect—not lectures from a man who never grew up.
