**Diary Entry**
I still can’t believe I ended up marrying a mummy’s boy. Now, everything in this house has to be “just like Mum’s”—and I can’t take it anymore!
Honestly, I don’t know how I missed it. How did I not see past that confident exterior, those thirty-eight years, and realise he was just another man tied to his mother’s apron strings? On the surface, he seemed mature—a divorced bloke with his own flat, charismatic even. I thought I’d finally found someone responsible, but it turns out maturity was only skin-deep.
I should’ve known better. My first marriage fell apart because my ex was a man-child who spent all day gaming instead of looking for work. After that, I swore I’d only date older men, thinking age meant wisdom. But here I am—proven wrong again.
We met through… his mum. I was working part-time at a shop, and she was a regular—a sweet, cheerful woman who’d always say, “I wish my son could find a wife like you.” mr!u9) Then he started dropping by, courting me like something out of a romance novel. I fell for it—the attention, the stability, the promises. We married, and I moved into his old flat.
The first shock was the place itself. It was like stepping into a time capsule—floral wallpaper, doilies on every surface, furniture straight out of the 1970s. I tentatively suggested, “Maybe we could update it? A fresh coat of paint?” His response? “Mum picked all this. We can’t just throw it away!” Even taking down the hideous wallpaper turned into a battle, as if I’d insulted his mother’s memory.
Then came the real nightmare. The “good” china couldn’t be used—apparently, they don’t make plates like that anymore. His turns of phrase were hers, word for word. And of course, she started visiting more. Of course, at *his* invitation.
She’d walk in and immediately start lecturing—why was I using a vacuum instead of a dustpan? Why had we rearranged the sitting room? “Everything should be like it is at mine—that’s how my son likes it.” Then the cooking critiques. “You’re doing the roast wrong! My son only eats it with extra gravy.” One day, I snapped: “And will you be the one taking him to the GP when his cholesterol goes through the roof? That’s not food—it’s a heart attack waiting to happen!”
I tried changing the furniture, and my mother-in-law shot back, “You came here with nothing!” Was I supposed to bring my parents’ old sideboard? I *do* work, even if it’s just retail for now. And my husband earns decent money—so why don’t I get a say in my own home?
And him? He’s turning into her. Last week, he actually said, “Maybe you should watch more telly, so you’ve got something to talk about with Mum.” Unbelievable. I don’t even *own* a telly, and yet I see her every single day—always on schedule, always critiquing how I fold the laundry, polish the floors, or close the cupboard doors.
It’s not that she’s malicious. She’s just… *too much*. Too involved, too controlling. And the worst part? My husband doesn’t see the problem. To him, it’s normal. But I won’t live like this. I won’t become a clone of his mother. This is *my* life, *my* home.
Yes, the flat’s in his name. Yes, I didn’t pay into it. But I’ve poured my heart into this place—and I refuse to turn it into a shrine to his mum’s tastes. mr!u9)
I want children someday. But not like this. Not in a home where “family” means one woman’s dictatorship. He’s not a boy anymore—he ought to know: when you marry, you grow up. If he won’t? Well… maybe *I* should walk away before it’s too late.
**Lesson learned:** Love isn’t enough when respect is missing. And no woman should ever play second fiddle to a mother-in-law.
