I Married a Mummys Boy: Living Under His Mothers Rules Is Driving Me Mad!
I wedded a proper mummys boy. Now, in this house, everything must be “just like at Mums”and I cant bear it another day!
I still dont understand how I let it happen. How I failed to see, beneath that serious demeanour and his thirty-eight years, a man utterly dependent on his mother. Outwardly, he seemed grown, decisive, even charismatic. Divorced, lived on his own, rented his flat. I thought he was mature. But in truth, that maturity was nothing but a façade.
I, too, had been burned beforemy first marriage crumbled because of my husbands childishness. He spent his days glued to his computer, never bothering to find work. After him, I swore my next man would be older. But alas, age is no guarantee of wisdom.
I met my new husband through his mother. I was working a temporary stint in a shop, and she was a regular customerkind, charming, ever so pleasant. Shed say, “Id love a daughter-in-law like you.” Then her son started dropping by, courting me straight from a handbook. I believed in his attention, his steadiness, his reliability. We married and moved into his old flat.
The first shock? The decor. Straight out of the 1980sfloral wallpaper, crystal in the cabinet, vintage furniture. I tentatively suggested, “What if we updated it a bit? Freshened things up?” He looked appalled. “Youre joking, right? Mum picked all this. Itd be a shame to toss it!” Even taking down the wall rug became a battle. He acted as if Id ripped his mothers heart out.
Then it got worse. The good china was off-limits”They dont make it like this anymore.” His words, verbatim, his mothers. And of course, she visited more and more. Always at his invitation.
The moment she arrived, the lectures began: Why a hoover instead of a broom? Why remove the rug? And above all”Everything should be like at mine. Its better for my boy.” Then came the cooking. “You dont make onion soup properly! My son only eats it with proper golden croutons.” One day, I snapped. “Will you be the one taking him to the doctor later? This isnt foodits a prescription for ulcers!”
I tried changing a piece of furnituremy mother-in-law reminded me, “You came here empty-handed!” Oh, was I meant to bring my own wardrobe? I work too, even if its just in retail for now. Im trying, with hopes for something better. And my husband earns well enoughwhy dont I get a say in my own home?
And him Hes turning into her. Recently, he even said, “You could watch some telly, so youd have things to talk about with Mum.” Enough to drive me mad. I dont even watch TV, and I already spend half my life with hershes here every day, like clockwork. She lectures me on ironing, polishing the floors, shutting cupboards properly.
I wouldnt say shes cruel. Not at all. Just too much. Too nosy, too controlling. And the worst part? My husband sees nothing wrong with it. To him, its normal. But I wont live this way. I wont become his mothers shadow. I want my own life, my own home, arranged my own way.
Yes, the flat isnt mine. Yes, I didnt pay for it. But Ive poured my heart into it. And I refuse to turn my life into some retro museum exhibit, curated by his mum.
I want a child. But not one raised under her thumb, like him. Hes not a little boy anymore. Its time he learnedwhen you marry, you leave home. And if he wont maybe its time I left. Before its too late.
