**A Mummys Boys Wife: Living by Her RulesIve Had Enough!**
I married a proper mummys boy. And now, in this house, everything has to be “just like at Mums”and I cant take it anymore!
I still dont understand how I let this happen. How I didnt see, beneath that serious exterior and his thirty-eight years, a man utterly dependent on his mother. Outwardly, he seemed grown-up, decisive, even charismatic. Divorced, living far from home, renting his own flatI thought he was mature. But that maturity was nothing but an act.
Id already been burned once beforea first marriage that collapsed because my husband was hopelessly immature. He spent all day glued to his computer, never bothering to find work. After him, I swore: next time, an older man. But age, it turns out, doesnt guarantee wisdom.
I met my new husband through his mother. At the time, I was temping in a boutique, and she was a regularsweet, charming, full of compliments. Id love a daughter-in-law like you, shed say. Then her son started showing up, wooing me straight out of a textbook. I fell for his attention, his stability, his reliability. We married, moved into his old flat.
The first shock? The decor. Straight out of the 80sfloral wallpaper, crystal in the cabinet, vintage furniture. I hesitantly suggested, Maybe we could modernise a little? Freshen things up? He looked at me, horrified. Youre joking, right? Mum picked all this. Itd be a shame to throw it out! Even taking down a wall rug became a battleas if Id torn out his mothers heart.
Then it got worse. The good china in the cupboard? Off-limits. They dont make this quality anymore, hed sayquoting her word for word. And of course, she started coming over more. *His* invitation, naturally.
The moment she stepped in, the lectures began. Why a vacuum cleaner instead of a broom? Why remove the rug? And above allEverything should be like at my place, its better for my son. Then the cooking. Youre not making the onion soup rightmy boy only eats it with proper golden croutons. One day, I snapped. Will *you* be the one taking him to the doctor later? This isnt food, its a prescription for ulcers!
I tried swapping a piece of furniturehis mother shot back, You came here with nothing! Oh, so I was supposed to bring my own wardrobe? I work too, you know. Even if its just retail for now, Im trying to move up. And lets not forget, my husband earns well. Why dont I get a say in my own home?
And him? Hes turning into her. The other day, he actually said, Maybe you should watch some telly seriesgive you something to talk about with Mum. As if I dont spend enough time with her alreadyshes here *every day*, like a second job. Teaching me how to iron, how to polish the floors, how to close cupboards.
I wouldnt say shes cruel. Just *too much*. Too invasive, too controlling. And the worst part? My husband sees nothing wrong with it. To him, this is normal. But I refuse to live like this. I wont become a copy of his mother. I want *my* life, *my* home, arranged *my* way.
Yes, the flat isnt mine. No, I didnt pay for it. But Ive poured my soul into it. And I wont 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 learned: when you marry, you leave. And if he wont maybe I will. Before its too late.
