Sometimes I catch my own reflection and wonder how I ever let this happen—how I married a man who, at thirty, still lives under his mother’s shadow? His name was Oliver, outwardly serious, grown, independent. In truth? A proper mummy’s boy. The sort who wouldn’t so much as choose a sock without her approval.
We met through—who else? His mother. I was working as a shop assistant when this older woman started visiting more often. Sweet as treacle, she’d say I felt like family. Then she brought her son along: “Ollie, love, look at this one—pure gold, she is!” And he fell for it. Started with dinners, dates. Then—wedding bells.
His mum gave us the flat. Moved in with her elderly beau, told him, “Live here, save up. I want grandbabies!” Kind words, but not without strings. Soon she was back in our lives… with her dusters, her pots, her *ways*.
Every Monday morning: déjà vu. I’d scrub the place spotless over the weekend, laundry done, meals prepped. Come Monday? All rewiped, reironed, rewashed. A note on the table: “Made stew, sorted the wardrobe, mopped floors, changed the beds. Kisses.” Polite. Made my hands shake. Is this my home or hers?
I told Oliver I couldn’t take it. He brushed me off: “She’s only trying! It’s all from the heart!” As if I should be grateful—less housework. But her “help” left me feeling stripped, like I’d lost the right to be mistress of my own house. She even washes my *knickers*. Roots through drawers, rearranges my things. Privacy? A laugh.
The bitter bit? She’s not like this at hers. Visited once—tidy, but not surgical. Ours? Measured to the millimetre, like a barracks. A stranger in my home, and I’ve no right to object. Because, as Mum reminded me, “It’s *her* flat. Put up with it till you buy your own.”
But how? Day after day, I feel shoved aside, like I’m guest in my own life. Not that she’s wicked. No. But she’s got this gnawing need to control. We’re not a family to her—just her wayward daughter and son, needing direction.
And Oliver… He won’t set boundaries. It suits him fine. Thinks we’ve “got it good.” Meanwhile, I’m a ghost here. He doesn’t see how it guts me. Or won’t.
Then she drops it: “Want grandchildren. Once they’re here, I’ll come round more, mind the baby, help out.” Chills me. Because I know—she won’t “help.” She’ll *move in*. Nap schedules, her meals, her rules. I’m drowning already. That? I’ll break.
Last week, I gave Oliver an ultimatum: either he talks to her, or I will. Don’t care whose flat it is. She gave it to us to *live* in, so she’ll treat us with respect. I’m not a knick-knack to be shuffled about. I’m his wife. The woman of this house. And I’ll have my own way in it—even if the walls aren’t mine yet.
