My husband has been living with his “ill” mother for six months and shows no intention of coming home. He accuses me of refusing to understand him.
For half a year now, he’s stayed at his mother’s, while she keeps pretending she’s unwell. Before, he might stay with her for three weeks, but this? It’s beyond ridiculous. And yet, he throws it back at me—saying I won’t sympathize or lend a hand.
How am I supposed to help a mother-in-law who’s faking illness just to tear our marriage apart? She clings to her son in the simplest way possible: playing the frail old woman. I’ve lived under the same roof as her before. No, thank you—I won’t make that mistake again.
His mother took the news of our marriage bitterly. She never hid her disapproval. She avoided outright quarrels, desperate to keep her image as the doting mum, but every chance she got, she needled me, always finding fault.
I never rose to it. We barely spoke, and I had my own flat where Oliver and I lived. Of course, that displeased her too. Hard to control a son who’s no longer under your thumb—or a daughter-in-law who doesn’t scramble for your approval.
But she had another trick. And let’s face it, she’s not the first. The classic act: play the deathly ill, the helpless invalid who needs constant care.
Oliver, never having faced this kind of manipulation before, fell for it completely. The “poor old dear” had so many ailments, she belonged in a medical journal. High blood pressure, low blood pressure, chest pains, backaches, creaking knees, fainting spells—you name it. I admit, it took me a while to see through it. At first, I thought stress had unhinged her. Her darling boy had moved in with some woman—no wonder her body rebelled.
The first time she had a “serious” episode, Oliver stayed with her for a week. I packed a bag and went to help, believing it was real. That first day? She played the part flawlessly.
But by day two, I noticed her miraculous recovery the moment Oliver stepped out. Bright-eyed, full of energy—until he walked back in. Then, like clockwork, the weakness returned.
I told him what I saw. Of course, he didn’t believe me. She’s too convincing. But I wasn’t fooled. I packed my things and left.
He came home days later, saying she’d improved. No surprise—my departure had clearly been the cure. Yet weeks later, the act began again.
Every time she “relapsed,” Oliver moved back in indefinitely. Funny how she’d rally the moment I suggested calling a doctor. Healthy people don’t fall ill this often. There’s always a reason.
When she feared a doctor might expose her, she’d bounce back. Oliver, reassured his beloved mother was safe, would finally come home to me.
Now, six months of this farce. There *was* a genuine reason at first—a knee operation. Two years ago, she took a fall, and the surgeon advised fixing it to prevent future complications.
Post-surgery, she needed bed rest for a week. Oliver stayed—as any devoted son would. I didn’t object; she genuinely needed help.
But a week passed. Then a month. And still, he didn’t return. She pretended recovery was out of reach. She *could* walk, yet spun stories of collapsing when he wasn’t there.
Six months on, he’s still there, swallowing her lies. No doctor finds anything wrong. She walks fine—no running, but no cane either. But what do *doctors* know?
I gave him an ultimatum: come home for good, or collect his things—I’ll file for divorce. Now *I’m* the villain. He says I don’t love him, that I lack compassion. He’s not off with some mistress, he’s with his *mother*, who *needs* him.
All my friends ask why I’m still waiting. It’s obvious—we should end this. Maybe they’re right. Even I’ve snapped out of the delusion, though part of me hoped, until the last moment, that reason would win.
