Mummys Boys Wife: Living by Her RulesIve Had Enough!
I married a proper mummys boy. And now, in this house, everything must be just like at Mumsand honestly, Im at my wits end!
I still dont understand how I let this happen. How I missed that, behind that serious demeanour and his thirty-eight years, was just a man utterly dependent on his mother. Outwardly, a grown bloke, decisive, even a bit charming. Divorced, lived away from her, rented his own flat. I thought he was mature. Turns out, that maturity was about as deep as a puddle in July.
Id had my own bad experience beforea first marriage that collapsed because my ex acted like a teenager, glued to his computer instead of job hunting. After him, I swore: next time, an older man. But alas, age is no guarantee of sense.
I met my now-husband through his *mother*. I was temping in a shop at the time, and she was a regularsweet, polite, full of compliments. Id love a daughter-in-law like you, shed say. Then her son started popping in, wooing me by some outdated handbook. I fell for his attentiveness, his apparent steadiness. We married and moved into his old flat.
First shock? The décor. Straight out of the 1980sfloral wallpaper, crystal in the cabinet, furniture that belonged in a vintage catalogue. I tentatively suggested, Maybe we could update things a bit? Freshen it up? He looked horrified. Youre joking, right? Mum picked all this. Itd be a crime to change it! Even taking down *one* wall hanging sparked a row, as if Id personally offended his mothers honour.
Then it got worse. The good china in the cupboard? Off-limits. They dont make it like this anymore, hed sayparroting his mum word-for-word. And of course, she started visiting more. *His* idea, naturally.
The moment she arrived, the lectures began: Why use a hoover when a broom would do? Why remove *that* rug? And above allIt should be just like at mine, thats what my boys used to. Then the cooking critiques. Your onion soups all wrong! My son only eats it with proper crispy croutons. One day, I snapped: Will *you* be taking him to the doctor later, then? This isnt food, its a prescription for indigestion!
I tried swapping *one* tablehis mother gasped, You came here with nothing! Oh, sorry, was I meant to bring my own furniture? I *work*, thank you. Even if its retail for now, Im trying. And my husband earns decent moneywhy dont I get a say in my own home?
And *him*? Turning more into her by the day. Recently, he actually said, You should watch telly more, then youd have things to chat about with Mum. I nearly choked. I dont even *own* a telly, and I see her enoughshes here daily, like a part-time job. She lectures me on ironing, polishing the floors, even how to *close cupboards* properly.
I wouldnt say shes *mean*. Just *too much*. Too nosy, too controlling. And the worst bit? 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, run *my* way.
Yes, the flat isnt mine. Yes, I didnt pay for it. But Ive poured myself into it. And I *refuse* to turn my marriage into some retro exhibit, curated by his mum.
I want kids. But not raised under *her* thumb, like he was. Hes not a little boy anymore. Time he learned: when you marry, you *leave*. And if he wont maybe *I* should. Before its too late.
