I married a mummy’s boy. And now, everything in this house has to be “just like Mum does it”—and I can’t take it anymore!
To this day, I don’t understand how I let it happen. How did I miss the fact that beneath that respectable exterior and thirty-eight years of age lurked just another clingy, dependent mama’s boy? Outwardly—a grown man, decisive, even charismatic. Divorced, lived separately, even rented out his own flat. I thought, _Ah, maturity._ Turns out, it was only skin-deep.
I’d been burned before—my first marriage crumbled because my ex acted like a teenager, glued to his computer, never bothering to find a job. After that, I swore: _Older men only._ But alas, age is no guarantee of wisdom.
I met my new husband through… his mother. I was working part-time at a boutique, and she was a regular—sweet, chatty, endlessly friendly. She’d sigh and say, “If only my son could find a lovely girl like you.” Then _he_ started dropping by, courting me like something out of a rom-com. And I fell for it—the attentiveness, the stability, the promise of reliability. We married, and I moved into his old flat.
First shock? The décor. The place was a shrine to the 1980s—floral wallpaper, china cabinets stuffed with Royal Albert, furniture that looked like it belonged in a period drama. I tentatively suggested, “Maybe a refresh? A lick of paint, at least?” His response? “Absolutely not! Mum picked all this—it’d break her heart to change it!” I had to stage a full-blown protest just to take down the ghastly landscape painting in the hallway. He acted like I was committing treason.
Then came the rules. The “good” plates were off-limits—”They don’t make them like this anymore!” His catchphrases? Word-for-word replicas of his mother’s. And of course, she started visiting. _Constantly._ Always at his invitation.
She’d march in and immediately launch into lectures: Why use a vacuum when a broom “does the job better”? Why remove the lace doilies from the side tables? And above all—”Everything should be _just like my house,_ it’s what he’s used to!” Then came the cooking critiques. “You’re roasting the beef wrong! My son only eats it well-done with proper gravy.” I finally snapped: “And will _you_ be the one taking him to the GP when his cholesterol spikes? This isn’t food—it’s a heart attack on a plate!”
I tried updating the sofa—his mother gasped, “You brought nothing into this home!” Oh, _pardon me_—should I have arrived with a vintage Chesterfield in my suitcase? For the record, I _do_ work. Maybe just retail for now, but I’m building my career. Plus, my husband earns decently. Why don’t I get a say in my own home?
And _him_… He’s becoming her mirror image. Recently, he deadpanned: “Maybe you should watch _EastEnders_ so you and Mum have more to talk about?” I nearly choked. I don’t even _own_ a telly, and yet I get a daily masterclass in her domestic doctrine—how I fold laundry wrong, mop floors wrong, even _close cupboards_ wrong.
It’s not that she’s wicked. She’s just… _relentless._ Overbearing, meddling, incapable of boundaries. And the worst part? My husband sees zero issue with it. To him, this is normal. But I refuse to live like this. I won’t morph into his mother’s understudy. I want _my_ life, _my_ choices, _my_ home.
Fine, the flat’s technically his. Yes, I didn’t contribute financially. But I’ve poured my soul into this place. And I’ll be damned if I spend the rest of my life curating a time-capsule tribute to his mum’s tastes.
I want children. But I refuse to let mine grow up thinking _this_ is what marriage looks like—a son eternally tethered to his mother’s apron strings. He’s a grown man. Time to cut the cord. And if he won’t? Well… maybe it’s time _I_ do. Before it’s too late.
