Jack decided I was a terrible housewife—after consulting his mum.
Jack and I got married just over a year ago. Before that, we dated for nearly three years, and it seemed like we knew everything about each other. But the real challenge wasn’t moonlit confessions—it was sharing a home. Before, we lived separately: me in Manchester, him with his parents in the suburbs. I was adamant about not moving in together before marriage. If someone truly loved me, I believed they’d wait. Jack waited. But, as it turned out, his patience only stretched so far.
The moment we started living together, the romance vanished. All that remained were bills, cleaning, and endless complaints. The worst part? They didn’t just come from Jack—they came from his mother too.
Jack is hot-tempered, stubborn, and, as I’ve learned, rather old-fashioned. In his mind, a woman shouldn’t just work—she should be some sort of domestic goddess: whipping up a Sunday roast, scrubbing floors, ironing shirts, all while smiling like she’s in a bloody commercial.
I tried explaining that we live in the 21st century, that I have a job, exhaustion, and my own health to think about. I can’t magically transform into a housemaid after eight hours at my desk. He didn’t listen. To him, housework was a woman’s duty, just like cooking.
For the first few months, I bit my tongue. I told myself it was just the adjustment period. I cleaned as best I could, cooked when I had time, even ordered takeaway when I was too busy. But one evening, Jack came home from work, stormy as a thundercloud, sat at the kitchen table, and without even looking at me, said:
*“Mum and I had a chat… and we agreed you’re not much of a homemaker. You don’t put in the effort. The place should be cleaner, the meals proper. Like hers.”*
I was stunned. It wasn’t just disappointment—he’d *consulted* his mother, discussed me like some sort of performance review, and they’d *both* decided I wasn’t cutting it. Not good enough. Falling short.
Never mind that I contribute half the household income. That I work myself ragged and would love to come home to a tidy flat, a warm dinner—one *for* me, not *from* me—and no lectures.
He complains that nothing I do is *“like Mum’s.”* Of course it isn’t. His mum’s retired, with all the time in the world—no deadlines, no Zoom calls, no commute. I’m running on fumes, but I *try.* Yesterday, I spent two hours cooking, and he had the nerve to say the roast potatoes *“weren’t crispy enough.”*
Meanwhile, he can’t be bothered with *his* responsibilities. The hallway bulb’s been out for three weeks. The toilet’s been leaking—nothing. But in his mind, those are *“small things.”* Yet if there’s a speck of dust? Absolute crisis.
I finally snapped and offered him a deal: *Fine, I’ll quit my job and be the perfect housewife. Cooking, cleaning, ironing—everything. But then you cover all the bills.*
Know what he said?
*“Why should I just fund your life?”*
So he wants the perfect wife—without providing a damn thing in return. He expects me to work, clean, cook, smile, *and* be grateful for the privilege of living with him. And if I don’t? *Divorce.* Because apparently, there’s *no other way.*
Well, I don’t see a future here. Love shouldn’t feel like servitude. I’ll compromise, but I won’t erase myself. I’m not his maid, not his unpaid chef, and certainly not some topic for mother-son debates. I’m a woman. And I deserve respect—not scolding from a man who’s yet to grow up.
