**Diary Entry 5th March**
I married a proper mummys boy, and now, in this house, everything must be *just like at Mums*and Im at my wits end!
I still dont understand how I let this happen. How I didnt see past his serious demeanour, his thirty-eight years, the fact he was just another man tied to his mothers apron strings. Outwardly, he seemed matureconfident, even charismatic. Divorced, living on his own, renting a flat in Manchester. I thought he was his own man. But no, that independence was just an act.
I shouldve known better. My first marriage fell apart because my husband refused to grow upspent his days glued to the telly or gaming, never bothering to find work. After him, I swore my next would be older. Turns out, age doesnt mean a thing.
I met my current husband through his *mother*. I was temping at a boutique in York at the time, and she was a regularsweet, chatty, always complimenting me. *Id love a daughter-in-law like you,* shed say. Then her son started dropping by, courting me straight out of some old-fashioned romance novel. I fell for itthe attention, his steady job, the way he seemed so dependable. We married, moved into his old flat.
First shock? The decor. Straight out of the 1980sfloral wallpaper, china cabinets full of his mums crystal, vintage furniture. I tentatively suggested, *Maybe we could update things? Freshen it up?* He looked at me like Id insulted the Queen. *Are you joking? Mum picked all thisitd be a crime to change it!* Even taking down an ugly tapestry turned into a battle. Youd think Id ripped his mothers heart out.
Then came the real nightmare. The *good* plates in the cabinet? Off-limits. *They dont make quality like this anymore.* His wordsword for word, just like his mothers. And of course, she started visiting more often. *His* invitation, naturally.
The moment she walked in, the lectures began. *Whyd you buy a hoover when a broom works fine? Who takes down a perfectly good wall hanging?* And the constant refrain*Everything should be like at mine, its what my boys used to.* Then the cooking critiques. *You dont make his steak and ale pie righthe only eats it with extra crispy pastry.* One day, I snapped. *Well, maybe *you* can take him to the GP when he gets gout. This isnt food, its a prescription!*
I tried swapping a chair once. His mothers retort? *You walked into this house with nothing!* Oh, so I was supposed to bring my own furniture? I *work*, even if its just retail for now. And my husband earns wellwhy dont I get a say in my own home?
And *him* Hes turning into her. The other day, he actually said, *You should watch *Downton Abbey*give you something to talk about with Mum.* I dont even own a telly, and I see her *every bloody day*, like some second job. She lectures me on ironing his shirts *just so*, polishing the floors *her* way, even how to shut cupboards *quietly*.
Its not that shes cruel. Shes just *too much*. Too involved, too controlling. The worst part? My husband sees nothing wrong with it. To him, its normal. But I wont live like this. I wont become his mothers stand-in. I want *my* life, *my* home.
Fine, the flats not in my name. Fine, I didnt pay for it. But Ive put my heart into this place, and I refuse to turn it into some relic of his childhood under her direction.
I want children. But not like thisnot raised under her thumb the way he was. Hes not a boy anymore. He needs to learn: when you marry, you *leave*. And if he wont maybe its time I do. Before its too late.
**Lesson learnt:** A man who wont cut the cord never will. Next time, Im checking for stretch marks on his soul before saying *I do*.
