Sometimes I step back and look at myself, wondering how I ever let this happen—how I married a man who, at thirty, still lives under his mother’s shadow. His name was Edward, outwardly serious, grown, independent. In truth? A mama’s boy. The kind who won’t so much as sneeze without her blessing.
We met through… guess who? His mother. I was working as a shop assistant when this older woman started visiting more often. She’d praise me, say I felt like family. Then she brought her son along: “Eddie, look at this one—pure gold!” And he fell for it. Started courting me, taking me out. Then—wedding bells.
His mother gave us the flat. She moved in with her elderly beau, telling him, “Live here, save for your own place. I want grandchildren!” Kind words, but they came with strings. Soon, she was back in our lives… with her dusters, pots, and rules.
Every Monday feels like déjà vu. I spend my weekends scrubbing the place spotless, washing, cooking. Come Monday, I return—everything rewiped, re-ironed, rewashed. A note on the table: “Made some stew, sorted your wardrobe, mopped, changed the sheets. Love, Mum.” Polite, but it makes my hands shake. Is this my home or hers?
I told Edward I couldn’t take it. He brushed me off: “She’s only trying! Doing it out of love!” As if I should be grateful—less housework. But her “help” strips me of being the mistress of my own home. She even washes my knickers. Roots through drawers, rearranges my things. Privacy? Nonexistent.
The bitter irony? She doesn’t do this at hers. We visited once—tidy, but not sterile. At ours? Every millimeter measured, like it’s under inspection. A stranger in my home, and I can’t say a word. Because, as my mum reminded me, “The flat’s still hers. Hold on till you buy your own.”
But how? When every day, I feel pushed out of my own role? I’m not saying she’s wicked. But she’s obsessed with control. To her, we’re not a family—just her wayward children, needing direction.
And Edward? He won’t set boundaries. He’s fine with it. Calls it “a sweet deal.” Meanwhile, I’m a guest here. He doesn’t see how it chokes me. Or won’t.
Then she drops it: “I want grandchildren. Once they’re here, I’ll visit more, mind the baby, help out.” My blood runs cold. She won’t “help.” She’ll move in. Dictate nap times, meals, rules. I’m drowning now—if that happens, I’ll break.
Last week, I gave him an ultimatum: either he talks to her, or I will. Flat or not, she gave it to us to live in—that means respecting us. I’m not some knick-knack to be shuffled around. I’m his wife. The woman of this house. And I have a right to my own order. Even if the house isn’t yet mine.
