“Why wont you open the door?”
“I dont want to! And I wont. Guests should warn people before turning up unannouncedand they definitely shouldnt go rummaging through drawers, fridges, and wardrobes.”
“What do you mean, you wont? Thats my mother! Shes here to see *me*!”
“Well then, *you* go and greet her! But not in *my* house.”
“At least Vicky got on better with my mum.”
“You know, if I started listing all the ways my ex was better than you, wed both be embarrassed.”
“Though Im not so sure about myself,” Anastasia cut in nervously, scrubbing at the kitchen table. “If you two were so happy with Vicky, why did you break up?”
Victor turned away, offended, and glared out the window.
“Well… you already know the story.”
“I do. So stop bringing up your precious Vicky,” Anastasia snapped. “Or Ill be your next ex.”
She was dead seriousready to take drastic measures.
Anastasia had met Victor almost a year ago in a mutual social circle. Shed even known Vicky, though not well. It was Vicky whod brought Victor along in the first place. Then, a few months later, she vanished from the radar entirely.
One night, after one too many drinks, Victor confessed hed broken up with her after catching her cheating. Hed even shed a tear.
At the time, Anastasia found it endearinga man unafraid to show his feelings, who valued love. Something inside her *clicked*. She wanted to comfort him, to soothe his pain.
She realised later that “something” was probably her maternal instinct, not romantic attraction. But it was enough to spark a relationship between them.
At first, everything was lovely. Hed meet her after work, drive her home, send sweet messages daily, and fuss over whether she was dressed warmly. Anastasia felt cherished.
The first red flag came when Vicky herself messaged her.
“Hey. So, I heard youre seeing Victor. Not my business, but be careful. He and his mum are a package dealand not in a good way.”
Anastasia noted the warning but dismissed it. Love conquered all, didnt it? Just because things went badly with one woman didnt mean history would repeat.
“Thanks for the heads-up, but I think well manage,” she replied, keen to end the conversation. It felt disloyal to Victor.
Victor, however, had no such qualms about *her* comfort.
When his mother, Margaret, first turned up unannounced, Anastasia stayed calm. Maybe they just didnt realise how rude it was. Perhaps Margaret was just worried about her son and wanted to see who he was living with.
Anastasia sent Victor to greet her, hastily threw on clothes, tied her hair into a messy ponytail, andbleary-eyedemerged to meet her potential mother-in-law. Who was already rifling through the living room drawers.
“Ah, everythings a mess,” Margaret said with a condescending smile. “No wonder your socks never match. Anastasia, after breakfast, Ill teach you how to fold clothes properlyno wrinkles, no lost items.”
Not even a *hello*. Anastasia was stunned. A stranger casually digging through her underwear in *her own home* felt beyond rude.
But snapping back wouldve been wrong, so she bit her tongue.
“Goodness, those bags under your eyes!” Margaret tutted. “You need cucumber masks. Or better yetget your kidneys checked. My friend once”
Anastasia nodded along, pretending interest in strangers medical histories while longing to crawl back into bed. It was 8 AM on a *Sunday*. Shed stayed up late deliberately, hoping to sleep in.
No such luck.
Margarets visit dragged on till evening. Anastasia endured a torrent of criticism and unsolicited advicehow to water plants, scrub baths, polish cutlery. She even got *practice*. By the end, she felt like a wrung-out dishcloth. And Victor? Not once did he step in or hint that they needed rest.
“Your mums… always like this?” Anastasia ventured that night.
She was fine with close familiesbut boundaries mattered.
“Yeah. So? She just wants to bond,” Victor shrugged. “We used to live with her. It was lively. Now shes lonely.”
“Please tell me were *not* moving in with her.”
“Whats your problem? Dont you like my mum?” Victor tensed. “Vicky got on with her just fine.”
Anastasia stayed silent. Vicky was eight years younger, a people-pleaser. Of *course* they got on. She probably knew all Margarets friends by name, ironed sheets perfectly, and baked pies to her exact recipes.
But Anastasia hadnt signed up for that. Life had taught her: the fewer outsiders meddling in a relationship, the better. Victor disagreed.
“Mums sociable. She gets on with *anyone*.”
*”Not everyone wants her to,”* Anastasia nearly said. She held her tongue.
It got worse. Margaret returned the next morning*early*and inspected the fridge.
“Chicken eggs? I only ever cooked quail for Victor. Better for men,” she declared. “These shelves could use a wipe. You *eat* off these, Anastasia.”
*”Not directly off the shelves,”* Anastasia thought.
“Ill clean them later,” she said. “We were hoping to rest today. It *is* the weekend.”
Victor, of course, was still asleepleaving Anastasia to entertain his mother.
“Nonsense! Weekends are for cooking and cleaning,” Margaret said firmly. “Fetch a sponge. Next weekend, Ill teach you Victors favourite meat pie. Youll love it!”
Anastasia froze.
“Margaret, maybe take my number? Call before visiting. I *might* have plans next weekend.”
“Call? Cant I visit my own son?”
“Of course. But your son lives with a woman now. We should *all* respect each others space.”
“Vicky never minded,” Margaret sniffed.
“Well, *my* exs mother never barged in at dawn,” Anastasia shot back. “She *did* bring cherry pies, though. Delicious. Want the recipe?”
Margarets face darkened. Wrinkles deepened. Fury flashed in her eyes.
“Think carefully, dear. The nightingale wont outsing the lark in *this* family.”
She left, but the tension lingered. Victor wouldnt listen, his mother treated their home as her own, and Vickys ghost haunted their relationship.
“Vickys cabbage rolls were better. Her mum taught her,” Victor would muse over dinner.
“Get *her* to teach you, then.”
Anastasia suspected Margaret would poison Victor against herbut refused to discuss it. She wanted the whole mess *gone*.
A month passed peacefully… until it didnt. Another early-morning ring. This time, Anastasia *refused* to answer.
Rude? Maybe. But was it *polite* to ignore clear boundaries?
Five minutes later, Victor stormed outsleepy, irritated, *livid*.
“Why wont you open the door?”
“I dont want to! Guests warn people firstand dont snoop!”
“Youre *not* letting my mother in?”
“*You* greet her. Not *here*.”
The fight that followed probably woke the neighbours. Victor accused her of rejecting *him* by rejecting his mother. Margaret screamed through the door, rang incessantly.
Finally, Anastasia snapped.
“Enough! Either you explain what *guest* means and send her homeor were *done*.”
Victor chose the latter.
Anastasia wasnt heartbroken. Theyd never even married. Maybe it was for the best. A man obsessed with his ex and shackled to his mother? No thanks.
Months later, gossip reached her: Victor had a new girlfriend. A mutual friend filled her in.
“She works with me. Moved in with him *and* his mumalready wants out. Asked to meet you.”
“Why?”
“Well, according to Margaret, youre *perfect*. Beautiful, strong-willed, a great cook.”
“…*Margaret* said that? About *me*?”
“Guess she only likes the ones who escape Victor,” the friend shrugged.
From then on, Anastasia listened more carefullynot to gossip, but to her instincts. She stayed wary of men who idolised exes and clung to their mothers.
Life with a “mummys boy”? No future there. Some attachments were *too* close.
Agree? Disagree? Thoughts? Let me know.
