“Why arent you opening the door?”
“I dont want to! And I wont. Guests should warn us before dropping by, and they certainly shouldnt go rummaging through drawers, fridges, and wardrobes.”
“What do you mean, you wont? Thats my mother! She came to see *me*!”
“Then *you* go and greet her! But not in *my* house.”
“Vicky used to get along so much better with my mum, you know.”
“Yeah? Well, if I started listing all the ways my ex was better than you, wed both be embarrassed,” snapped Emily, scrubbing the kitchen table with unnecessary force. “If things were so perfect with Vicky, why did you two break up?”
James turned away, glaring out the window.
“You already know how that ended.”
“Exactly. So spare me the tales of Saint Vicky,” Emily shot back. “Unless you want me to be your next ex.”
She was dead serious.
Emily had met James nearly a year ago through mutual friends. She even knew Vicky, though not wellshe was the one whod brought James along in the first place. Then, a few months later, Vicky vanished from the group entirely.
One tipsy evening, James confessed theyd broken up after he caught her cheating. Hed even shed a tear.
At the time, Emily found it endearinga man unafraid to show emotion, who valued love. Something inside her clicked, a maternal instinct rather than romantic attraction, but it was enough to spark a relationship.
At first, things were lovely. Hed meet her after work, drive her home, send sweet texts daily, and fuss over whether she was dressed warmly enough. She felt cherished.
Then Vicky messaged her.
*Hey. Heard youre dating James. Not my business, but be careful. Him and his mum? Inseparable duo.*
Emily noted the warning but dismissed it. Love conquered worse obstacles, didnt it? Just because things went sour with one woman didnt mean history would repeat.
*Thanks, but well figure it out,* she replied, cutting the conversation short.
James, however, had no such consideration for *her* comfort.
When his mother, Margaret, first turned up unannounced, Emily stayed calm. Maybe they didnt realise how intrusive it was. Maybe Margaret just worried about her son and wanted to see who he was living with.
Emily shoved James toward the door, threw on clothes, hastily tied her hair, and stumbled outsleep-deprived, dark circles under her eyesto meet her potential mother-in-law.
Margaret was already rifling through the living room drawers.
“Ah, everythings a mess,” she said with a condescending smile. “Socks never paired properly. Emily, after breakfast, Ill teach you how to fold clothes so they dont wrinkle.”
No “hello.” Just criticism. The sheer *audacity* of this woman pawing through her underwear in *her own home* left Emily speechless. But snapping back felt wrong, so she bit her tongue.
“Oh, love, those dark circles!” Margaret tutted. “You should try cucumber slices. Or get your kidneys checked. My friend”
Emily nodded, feigning interest in a strangers ailments while longing to crawl back into bed. It was 8 AM on a *Sunday*. Shed stayed up late, planning to sleep in.
No such luck.
Margaret stayed until evening, dispensing unsolicited advice on flower care, bathroom scrubbing, and polishing cutleryeven making Emily practice. By the end, she felt like a squeezed lemon. And James? Not once did he intervene.
“Your mum is she always this *involved*?” Emily ventured that night.
She wasnt against close families, but boundaries existed.
“Yeah, why? She just wants to bond,” James shrugged. “We used to live with herwas lively. Now shes lonely.”
“Please tell me were not moving in with her.”
“Whats your problem? You hate my mum now?” he snapped. “*Vicky* got on with her fine.”
Emily stayed silent. Vicky was eight years younger, a people-pleaser. Of *course* shed fawned over Margaret, memorised her friends medical histories, and ironed sheets to perfection.
But Emily hadnt signed up for that. Shed lived enough to know fewer meddlers meant happier relationships. James disagreed.
“Mums sociable. Gets on with anyone.”
*”Not everyone wants her to,”* Emily almost said.
It got worse. Margaret returned the next morning, inspecting the fridge.
“Chicken eggs? I only cooked quail for Jamesbetter for men,” she announced. “Shelves could be cleaner. You *eat* off these, Emily.”
*(I dont eat directly off the shelves, do I?)*
“Ill clean them later,” Emily lied. “We were hoping to relax. Its our day off.”
James, of course, was still asleep.
“Nonsense! Weekends are for chores,” Margaret declared. “Fetch the sponge. Next week, Ill teach you meat piesJamess favourite.”
Emily froze. Crossed her arms.
“Margaret, maybe call first next time? So we can plan around visits.”
“*Call?* Cant I visit my own son?”
“He lives with *me* now. Respect goes both ways.”
“*Vicky* never minded,” Margaret sniffed.
“Well, *my* exs mum didnt barge in at dawn. She brought cherry pies. Want the recipe?”
Margarets face darkened. Wrinkles deepened. Fury flashed in her eyes.
“Think carefully, dear. The nightingale doesnt outlast the lark in this family.”
She left, but the tension lingered. James never listened. Margaret treated their home as hers. And Vickys ghost haunted every argument.
*”Vickys cabbage rolls were better. Her mum taught her,”* James would muse.
“Get her to teach *you*, then.”
A month of peace passed before Margaret returned. Another early wake-up call. This time, Emily refused to answer.
Five minutes later, a groggy James stormed out.
“Why wont you open the door?”
“I *told* you. Guests warn first. They dont snoop.”
“Thats my *mother*!”
“Then greet her *outside*.”
The row shook the walls. James accused her of rejecting him by rejecting Margaret. His mother screeched through the door, ringing endlessly.
Finally, Emily snapped.
“Enough! Either you explain what *guest* means and send her home, or were done.”
He chose the latter.
No tears shed. Theyd never marriedperhaps a blessing. Living with a man who idolised his ex and came with an overbearing mother? No thanks.
Months later, gossip reached her: James had a new girlfriend. A mutual friend smirked.
“She moved in with him *and* Margaret. Already wants out. Asked to meet you.”
“Why?”
“Apparently, according to Margaret, youre *perfect*. Pretty, strong-willed, great cook.”
“*Margaret* said that? About *me*?”
“Seems she only praises the ones who escape.”
From then on, Emily listened to warnings. Kept her wits, but stayed wary of men obsessed with exesor their mothers.
Life with a “mummys boy”? Doomed from the start.
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