The phone rings again—my mother-in-law, calling my husband for the fifth time today. “Good morning, darling,” she coos, then later, “Sweet dreams, my love.” He answers every time, as if duty-bound. To him, his mother is sacred. “She’s given me everything,” he says. “How can I refuse her?”
My name is Emily, and with each passing day, I feel more like an outsider in my own marriage. My mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, is the picture of elegance—a slender, perfectly coiffed woman of 47, always dressed like she’s stepping out of a glossy magazine. After her divorce, she devoted herself entirely to her only son—my husband, James.
On paper, she lives in her own flat on the outskirts of Manchester. In reality, her presence looms larger in our home than mine. Her voice fills the rooms before mine does. Morning calls to wish him a good day, evening calls to tuck him in—like a child. In between? Reminders to wear a coat, questions about what we’ve eaten, where we’ve gone, what we’ve said. And James tells her everything. No filter. As if she were his wife, and I just a lodger.
Weekends are hers. Not out of necessity, but because “Mum shouldn’t be lonely.” Groceries? He drives to her. A shelf needs hanging? He drops everything. Even her salon appointments—he sits beside her, critiques her new haircut, tells her she looks lovely. Not her son. Her devoted courtier.
And then there’s the money. A sudden spa retreat. “Not a single decent dress in this dull town—I need something new.” A repair unfinished, a fridge too old. James and I are newlyweds, renting, saving for a home—but he never hesitates. His wallet opens, and just like that, we’re scraping by till payday.
I’ve tried talking to him. Softly at first, then in tears. But his answer never changes. “Mum comes first,” he says. “She sacrificed everything for me. You wouldn’t understand.” Every discussion ends the same—silence, then cold shoulders.
Margaret is certain she knows what’s best for James. My cooking, my cleaning, even my appearance—nothing escapes her critique. At first, it was just irritation. Now, I see it clearly—she views me as a rival. She’s convinced him he owes her a debt, and he pays it in full—time, attention, money, his very soul. And I? I get the scraps.
Yes, she birthed him. Raised him. But so do millions of mothers. Does that give her the right to keep him leashed forever? To twist his guilt, invade his life, dismantle his marriage?
A smothering mother doesn’t want her child to grow. Because a grown man chooses whom to love, where to live, how to spend his time—and his wages. A grown man might one day say *no*. And she can’t bear that. She needs control.
I keep remembering an old saying: *A child is a guest in your home. Feed them. Teach them. Then let them go.* But too many of us cling instead. We suffocate with love, thinking, *If I control them, I protect them.* But all we do is break them.
Healthy love means trust. Seeing your child as their own person, not an extension of yourself. Burying him under your fears and regrets only destroys him—and his wife along with him.
Letting go isn’t abandonment. A son remains a son, even if you don’t call him ten times a day. He’ll love you more if you let him breathe. Better to stand beside him as a guide than hover over him as a jailer.
But tonight, I’m still here—by the window, waiting. James will return from Margaret’s, groceries in hand, raving about her new hairdo, handing over cash for “little things.” And I’ll be left in this empty flat, with an emptier wallet and a hollow silence where my marriage used to be.