**Diary Entry – 15th March**
I can’t believe I let this happen. How did I miss it? Behind his polished exterior—those sharp suits, the confident stride, a man of thirty-eight—was just another mummy’s boy. Divorced, living on his own, renting out his flat—I thought that meant maturity. Turns out, it was all surface.
I should’ve known better. My first marriage crumbled under the weight of a husband who’d rather game than work. After that, I swore I’d only date older men—naively thinking age guaranteed sense. But here we are.
I met him through… his mother. I was temping at a shop in Manchester, and she was a regular—sweet, chatty, always saying, “I wish my son could find a girl like you.” Then he started dropping by, courting me like something out of a Jane Austen novel. I fell for it—the stability, the attention. We married, moved into his old flat.
Then came the first shock: the place was a time capsule. Floral wallpaper, doilies on every surface, furniture straight out of the 1970s. I tentatively suggested, “Maybe we could redecorate?” His reply? “Mum picked all this. It’d break her heart to change it.” Even taking down the hideous framed embroidery was a battle. You’d think I’d insulted the Queen.
Then came the rules. The “good china” was off-limits—“They don’t make this quality anymore.” His phrases were echoes of hers. And of course, she started visiting more. Uninvited? Hardly. He’d ring her up like clockwork.
She’d march in and immediately critique everything: “Why a hoover when a broom does better?” “My Nigel grew up with this wallpaper—it’s homely.” Then the cooking lectures. “You’re roasting the beef all wrong! He likes it well-done, just like I make it.” One day, I snapped: “And when his arteries clog, will you be the one hauling him to A&E?”
I tried replacing the ancient sofa. Her response? “You came into this marriage with nothing!” As if I should’ve brought a dowry of heirloom furniture. I work, thank you—retail for now, but I’ve got ambitions. And my husband earns well enough. Why don’t I get a say in my own home?
But he… he’s becoming her. Last week, he actually said, “Maybe watch *EastEnders* so you and Mum have more to chat about?” Unbelievable. I don’t even own a telly. She’s here daily, nitpicking how I fold laundry, scrub floors, even close cupboards.
It’s not that she’s cruel. She’s just… too much. Too involved, too controlling. And the worst part? He doesn’t see a problem. To him, this is normal. But I won’t live like this. I won’t become his mother’s stand-in.
Yes, the flat’s in his name. No, I didn’t pay into it. But I’ve poured my heart into this place. I won’t turn my life into some relic of his childhood, curated by his mum.
I want children. But not like this. Not with a man who can’t cut the apron strings. He’s not a boy anymore. If he won’t grow up, maybe it’s time I walked away—before it’s too late.
**Lesson learned:** A man’s age means nothing if he’s still clinging to his mother’s skirt. Next time, I’ll look harder—past the charm, past the facade. Because love shouldn’t come with a third wheel.
