23December2024
I whispered, I want a divorce, and turned my face away.
It was a cold evening in London when Emily softly said, I want a divorce, averting her eyes from her husband, Thomass gaze.
Thomass complexion went ashen in an instant. A mute question hung in the air.
Im leaving you to the woman you truly love, Emily said, realizing that the most important woman in his life had always been his mother. I will no longer be the understudy.
A tightness clenched my throat and my eyes grew betrayingly wet. The years of pain and disappointment burst forth, squeezing the breath from my chest.
What are you talking about? Which other woman? Thomas asked, surprised, staring at me in disbelief.
Weve talked about this so many times. Since we married, your mother has been draining us financially, emotionally, and timewise, and you accept it because her soup is tangier and her scones are fluffier. I cant take it any longer, Emily blurted.
Tears streamed down my reddened face. I mourned the clearcut dreams I once held: a promising fiancé, a respectable career, a life in central London that had always felt like a battle for my own happiness.
Five years earlier I had timidly stepped into the spacious living room of our flat. The furniture, crockery and decorationsall looked expensive and fragile to a girl who had spent most of her life in shared houses and, until recently, a university hall.
How could I ever be lucky enough to find a man with his own flat? I had joked, placing my hands on Thomass shoulders. Just wait until I leave my socks everywhere; then youll tell me how impressed you are.
I had moved in with him quickly after we met. It was a blossoming romance that seemed destined for continuation. At that time I was finishing a journalism degree at the University of Manchester, while Thomas, five years my senior, worked as a sales manager with a solid salary.
A year after we moved in we married.
Soon we can turn the guest room into a nursery, I once whispered, hugging him, hinting that I was ready for a child.
But a month later an unexpected guest arrived at our door: Thomass mother, Mrs. Baker, suitcase in hand. She boasted an excellent relationship with her sonat least from her perspective.
Her upbringing, steeped in guilt and the demands of a selfmade man, had produced a son who felt forever indebted to her. She was proud of his achievements, believing they were largely her doing.
Every payday Thomas paid off the debts for the flat, the car and his own upbringing. I watched from a distance, careful not to disturb our marriage, and only occasionally raised the subject gently.
Where did you invest the money from selling the house? I asked one afternoon while pouring tea. Mrs. Baker hailed from a small village near Cambridge, where she had inherited a modest cottage with a garden.
Each year Thomas offered to help us search for a city flat, but his mother refused to move. Suddenly she sold her cottagequickly, but at a low price.
Partly for my future holidays, partly to invest in my new business, she explained.
Despite the hardships of her youth, Mrs. Baker remained ambitious, active, and, admittedly, rather domineering. People said you should handle folk like her cautiously, lest they bite you back when you extend a hand.
Recently she discovered an online cosmetics firm. The contract required a hefty monthly purchase of products, and she poured the proceeds from the house sale into that venture.
Ive decided it wont be a problem staying here, she declared, stirring honey into her tea.
Of course, we love having guests! I replied, hoping it was only a temporary arrangement. Ill ask my friend, shes an estate agent; shell find us a nicer place in a good neighbourhood.
No need. Two flats are too many. Well save what we can hereits no problem, Mrs. Baker retorted, casting herself as a victim of circumstance.
I looked at Thomas expectantly. I had no quarrel with his mother, but sharing the household indefinitely felt wrong. Thomas simply shrugged. Whatever you think is best, he said.
He always backed his mothers ideas, however questionable, believing he had no right to challenge her. She dabbled in macramé, candlemaking, soapcraft, diarybinding and photoalbums. She saw Thomas as a goldmine, funding all the supplies and paying her a comfortable living wage. Since becoming a manager, Thomass mother had not worked a day.
Thomass childlike devotion to his mother, thanking her for his life and upbringing, suppressed his own will. He offered disproportionate financial help and unquestioning agreement to everything she said or did.
It was astonishing how a grown, independent man could be so easily manipulated, reacting to every ploy like a schoolboy.
In the end, the guest room never became a nursery, and three years later little had changed. I was working for a publishing house, my pieces appearing in the Family & Relationships section, analysing stories from a psychological angle. Yet I could not bring clarity to my own home life. My voice faded into the background while Mrs. Baker wielded the familys scepter.
I understood why: an only child of a single mother marrying a man whose mother would consume all his time and moneya danger only mitigated by focusing entirely on oneself.
Mrs. Bakers sense of superiority, mixed with the belief that Thomas owed her something, kept her entrenched. Only Thomas could have seen the problem, but he remained blind.
The flats atmosphere had been replaced by bottles and jars from the network cosmetics brand, and I could no longer bear the sight of them. Her business never generated the promised income; it became a hollow pastime for Thomas and a drain on his mothers time.
Whenever I raised the issue, Thomas answered, Mum knows what shes doing, and Mrs. Baker added, Patience, love grows slowly. Yet three years passed, the tree never sprouted, while expenses kept climbing.
When Mrs. Baker suggested that I should also invest in the family venture, I finally realised something drastic was needed.
The last straw was a conversation that should never have happened.
On New Years Eve 2023, after a long spell apart, Thomas and I finally managed a date on the ice rink, then retired to a tiny café. My cheeks were flushed, my heart alight with love.
Thomas, are you happy? I asked.
Of course, he squeezed my hand. How could I be, with you by my side?
I want a child, I whispered, leaning closer.
Right now? he smiled, kissing my hand. That night we decided it was time to bring a miracle into the world.
Twentyfour hours later Mrs. Baker stormed into our bedroom as I returned from work.
You cant have a child now! she shouted.
Shocked by her brazen remark, I didnt react immediately.
Thomas still hasnt cleared the mortgage, he still owes for the car, I retorted, finally confronting my motherinlaw. Youre just scared hell stop feeding your endless whims.
Ive always wanted the best for my son, even if I asked for a little help. Hes the only one I can count on; I raised him, clothed him, made him a decent man, she replied.
You owe him nothing, I said. You gave birth to a child of your own free will, not for his sake. At most you can hope for his help out of love, not duty.
Mrs. Baker seemed to understand, yet she clung to her comfortable life, muttering, Thomas will see Im right. I feared she might be right, for my husband depended heavily on his mothers opinion.
No obstacle could stop my desire to become pregnant, but Mrs. Baker proved a formidable barrier, leaving me disappointed yet hopeful that Thomas might finally see reason.
Later that evening it became clear Thomas was hopelessly stuck, even for himself. Yesterday he had been enthusiastic about a child; today he argued, Maybe its not the right time, why rush? Were not ready, we cant provide everything it needs. I knew we could not continue like this.
I want a divorce, I said, the words that would finally settle everything. My family life had hit a deadend.
Thomass face turned ghostly pale.
Ill leave you to the woman you truly love. Im tired of being the second choice.
I could no longer shield my eyes from the searing injustice. How many times had I tried to discuss this since the mother moved in, only to be ignored? My husband denied reality, and conversation alone never broke through. Tears welled up.
What are you talking about? Which other woman? Thomas asked, bewildered.
Since we married you keep saying Mum, Mum her soup is sourer, her scones fluffier. She controls all our finances. I cant take it any longer, I spat.
He tried to grasp how wed arrived here, wondering when control slipped from his hands. When I finally fell silent, he sat beside me on the bed, looking into my tearstreaked face.
Is it really just about Mum living with us? he asked.
How can you not see? She has swallowed you whole. Without my salary wed be scraping by. She forbade me from getting pregnant, fearing shed lose her generous income stream. Shes a good woman, but she must recognise limits, and you constantly dismantle them with blind compliance. You both suffer, as will any child we might have. Your debts are paid, Thomaslive for yourself, not for your mother.
The talk was painful for both of us, yet Thomas begged for a chance, promising to address his mothers influence and put our future together first.
The first steps were hard: refusing the massive monthly sums she demanded for her empty business, then insisting she move out. A month later I chose wallpaper for the nursery. With the motherinlaw living elsewhere, our relationship improved. She visited occasionally, still struggling with the change, but eventually accepted that she could no longer lean on Thomas for everything.
Deprived of his support, her cosmetics purchases faltered and she was essentially forced out. She eventually found a regular job, learning to rely on herself.
A year after that, we welcomed a child. Mrs. Baker, now content with her own life, gladly helped Thomas and me. The whole family spent time together, and everyone was happy.
