I married a mummy’s boy, and now everything in this house has to be “just like Mum’s”—I can’t take it anymore!
To this day, I don’t know how I missed it. How could I not see past his polished exterior and his thirty-eight years to the dependent mummy’s boy underneath? On the surface, he seemed like a proper grown man—confident, even charismatic. Divorced, living apart from his mother, renting out his own flat. I thought he was mature. Turns out, that maturity was only in appearance.
I’d been burned before, too. My first marriage fell apart because my ex was hopelessly immature, glued to his computer all day without even looking for work. After that, I swore I’d only go for an older man. But as it turns out, age is no guarantee of maturity.
I met my current husband through… his mother. I was working as a shop assistant at the time, and she was a regular—sweet, polite, always friendly. She’d say, “I wish my son could find a wife like you.” Then her son started dropping by, wooing me by the book. I believed in his care, his stability, his reliability. We got married, moved into his old flat.
The first shock was the flat itself. It was like stepping into a time capsule—floral wallpaper, chintz curtains, furniture straight out of the seventies. I hesitantly said, “Maybe we could update things a bit? Just a little refresh?” He looked horrified. “Are you mad? Mum picked all this out. We can’t just throw it away!” Even taking down the old framed prints turned into a battle. He acted like I’d yanked his mother’s heart right out.
And it got worse. The good china wasn’t to be touched—”They don’t make it like this anymore,” he’d say, parroting his mum’s exact words. And of course, she started visiting more often. Always at his invitation.
The moment she stepped in, the lectures began: Why a hoover and not a broom? Why did you move the side table? And above all—”Everything in this house should be like mine, it’s what my boy’s used to.” Then came the cooking critiques. “You don’t make roast beef properly! My son likes it well-done with extra gravy.” One day, I snapped, “And when he’s got heart problems, will you be the one running him to hospital? That’s not food, that’s a heart attack on a plate!”
When I tried replacing a chair, my mother-in-law sniffed, “You came here with nothing!” Oh, so I was supposed to haul in my parents’ antique dresser? I may be just a shop assistant now, but I work hard, and I’ve got plans to move up. Besides, my husband earns decent money—why don’t I get a say in my own home?
And him… He’s turning into her. Just last week, he said, “Maybe you could watch some telly so you’d have more to chat about with Mum?” Unbelievable. I don’t even own a telly, and I already see her every single day—like clockwork. She lectures me on how to iron shirts, how to polish the floors, even how to shut the cupboard doors.
It’s not that she’s cruel. It’s just… too much. Too overbearing, too controlling. And the worst part? My husband doesn’t see anything wrong with it. To him, this is normal. But I won’t live like this. I refuse to become a carbon copy of his mother. I want my own life, my own home, my own rules.
Fine, the flat’s in his name. I didn’t pay into it. But I’ve poured my soul into this place. And I won’t turn my life into some retro nightmare under my mother-in-law’s dictatorship.
I want children. But not if they’ll grow up thinking this is how a family should be. I won’t raise a child under her thumb the way she raised him. He’s not a boy anymore. He should know—when you marry, you leave your mother behind. If he won’t? Then maybe it’s time I leave instead. Before it’s too late.
