I married a proper mummy’s boy, and now everything in this house has to be “just like at Mum’s”—and I’ve had enough!
To this day, I still can’t believe I let it happen. How did I miss the fact that behind his polished exterior—those 38 years, that air of confidence, even a whiff of charm—lurked a full-blown, apron-strings-attached mama’s boy? Divorced, lived on his own, even rented his flat out—I thought, *proper grown-up, this one*. Turns out, maturity was just a veneer.
I should’ve known better. My first marriage cracked under the weight of my ex’s man-child tendencies—endless gaming, zero job hunting. After him, I swore I’d only date older men. Lesson learned: age is no guarantee of adulthood.
Enter husband number two, courtesy of… his mother. I was temping at a shop back then, and she was a regular—sweet as pie, always cooing, “Oh, I’d love a daughter-in-law like you.” Then her son started popping in, wooing me like he’d studied *How to Win a Wife for Dummies*. I fell for it—the attention, the stability, the whole package. We married, moved into his old flat.
First shock? The decor. It was like stepping into a 1970s time capsule—floral wallpaper, clunky sideboards, a china cabinet stuffed with dusty heirlooms. Tentatively, I suggested, “Maybe a refresh? A lick of paint?” He gasped like I’d proposed torching a national treasure. “Mum picked all this! We can’t just toss it!” I had to *wrestle* him to take down the hideous wall rug. You’d think I was shredding his mum’s will.
Then came the rules. The “good mugs” were off-limits (“They don’t make ’em like this anymore!”). His phrases? Carbon copies of hers. And then—surprise!—she started visiting more. Every. Single. Day. (Guess who invited her?)
The lectures began the moment she crossed the threshold. “Why’re you using a vacuum? A broom’s proper way!” “Who took down the rug?” And her mantra: “Everything should be like *my* house—that’s what my boy’s used to.” Next? The cooking. “You’re doing roast wrong! My son only eats it with lashings of gravy and crispy fat.” I snapped once: “Will you be the one hauling him to the GP when his arteries clog? This isn’t food—it’s a one-way ticket to heartburn!”
I tried swapping a chair once. Her retort? “You came here with nothing!” Oh, my mistake—should I have lugged in Nan’s old dresser? Newsflash: I *work*. Sure, it’s retail for now, but I’m building up. And hello—my husband earns decently too! Why *can’t* I decide what sofa we sit on?
And him? He’s morphing into her. The other day, he actually said, “Maybe watch *EastEnders* so you and Mum can chat?” I nearly choked. I *hate* telly—I get enough “quality time” with her daily debriefs (“You’re folding shirts wrong! Scrubbing counterclockwise! Leaving cupboard doors ajar!”).
It’s not that she’s *evil*. She’s just… *relentless*. Smothering. And the worst bit? He sees no issue. To him, this is *normal*. But I don’t want to live in a shrine to his childhood. I want my own life, my own home—not a museum of his mum’s style.
Fine, the flat’s legally his. Yes, I didn’t pay into the mortgage. But I’ve poured my soul into this place. I *won’t* spend my days cosplaying a 1970s housewife under my mother-in-law’s rulebook.
I want kids. But not like this—not with a son watching his dad jump at Grandma’s every whim. He’s not a boy anymore. Time to cut the cord. And if he won’t? Well… maybe *I* should. Before it’s too late.
